2429 

•giS7SP5E 


?e 


Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 

Fon?  L-l 


1602, 


3    is:- 

IY  13  1930 


L-9-2m-7,'22 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/atticphilosopherOOsouviala 


7922 


<V     [  IfaU  < 


That  pretty  lady  yonder. 


(Page  42.) 


AN 


ATTIC    PHILOSOPHER 
IN    PARIS 


OR,  A  PEEP  AT  THE  WORLD 
FROM  A  GARRET,  BEING  THE 
JOURNAL   OF  A   HAPPY  MAti 


KPJpM.'TjHp  fRRNr.K    OF 

EMILE    SOUVESTRE 


NEW     YORK 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY 

1895 


Copyright,  1892, 
By   D.    APPLETON   AND   COMPANY. 


Ei.ECTterri'p^BjA^ite  Ptuw-nfii  • 
at  thk,'Ap>'i.h?-1in  Pkiss*,  bT.  S.'M  •< 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

Advertisement 7 

I. — The  attic  New-Year's  gifts 9 

II. — The  carnival 20 

III. — What  we  may  learn  by  looking  out  of  window    .        .    34 

IV. — Let  us  love  one  another 46 

V. — Compensation 59 

VI. — Uncle  Maurice 73 

VII. — The  price  of  power  and  the  worth  of  fame  .        .        .89 

VIII. — Misanthropy  and  repentance 106 

IX. — The  family  of  Michael  Arout 119 

X. — Our  country 136 

XI. — Moral  use  ok  inventories 155 

XII. — The  end  of  the  year 175 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


That  pretty  lady  yonder .         . 

My  window  is  surrounded  with  sparrows 

A  poor  girl  comes  in,  and  greets  me  by  name 

"  Every  one  keeps  his  holidays  in  his  own  way " 

My  wallflower  begins  to  blow  again 

He  remained  mute  and  motionless 

The  contrast  in  their  dress  struck  me    . 

For  a  few  moments  I  forgot  myself  with  looking  about 

I  plucked  the  flower  from  the  stem 

There  was  the  same  beautiful  smile 

"  It  is  a  Deutaria   heptaphyllos"  said  he 

I  heard  the  sound  of  quarrelling  in  the  back  shop 

I  saw  again  my  mother's  gentle  face 

She  sees  herself,  again  a  child 

I   had  before  me  only  an  honest  citizen 


PAGE 

Frontispiece 


•  13 
Facing     14 

.      26 

•  •      36 

•  50 
Facing     54 

.      70 

Facing     78 

.  .     98 

.   101 

Facing  121 

Facing  157 

.   171 

185 


WITH    HEAD    AND    TAIL    PIECES    FOR    EACH    CHAPTER. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


We  know  a  man  who,  in  the  midst  of  the  fever  of 
restlessness  and  of  ambition  which  racks  society  in  our 
times,  continues  to  fill  his  humble  part  in  the  world 
without  a  murmur,  and  who  still  preserves,  so  to  speak, 
the  taste  for  poverty.  With  no  other  fortune  than 
a  small  clerkship,  which  enables  him  to  live  within  the 
narrow  limits  which  separate  competence  from  want, 
our  philosopher  looks  from  the  height  of  his  attic 
upon  society  as  upon  a  sea,  of  which  he  neither  covets 
the  riches  nor  fears  the  wrecks.  Being  too  insignifi- 
cant to  excite  the  envy  of  any  one,  he  sleeps  peacefully, 
wrapped  in  his  obscurity. 

Not  that  he  retreats  into  egotism,  as  a  tortoise  into 
its  shell !  He  is  the  man  of  whom  Terence  says  that 
"  nothing  human  seems  foreign  to  him  !  "  All  external 
objects  and  incidents  are  reflected  in  his  mind  as  in  a 
camera  obscura,  which  presents  their  images  in  a 
picture.  He  "  looks  at  society  as  it  is,  in  itself,"  with 
the  patient  curiousness  which  belongs  to  recluses ; 
and  he  writes  a  monthly  journal  of  what  he  has  seen 
or  thought.  It  is  the  "  Calendar  of  his  Impressions," 
as  he  is  wont  to  call  it. 


8  AD  VER  TI  SEMEN  T. 

We  have  been  allowed  to  look  over  it,  and  have 
extracted  some  pages  which  may  make  the  reader 
acquainted  with  the  commonplace  adventures  of  an 
unknown  thinker  in  those  twelve  hostelries  of  Time 
called  Months. 


cP$M&£ 


CHAPTER    I. 
THE   ATTIC   NEW-YEAR'S   GIFTS. 

January  ist. — The  day  of  the 
month  came  into  my  mind  as 
soon  as  I  awoke.  Another  year 
is  separated  from  the  chain  of 
ages,  and  drops  into  the  gulf  of 
the  past !  The  crowd  hasten  to 
welcome  her  young  sister.  But  while  all  looks  are 
turned  towards  the  future,  mine  revert  to  the  past. 
Every  one  smiles  upon  the  new  queen  ;  but,  in  spite  of 
myself,  I  think  of  her  whom  time  has  just  wrapped 
in  her  winding-sheet.  The  past  year! — at  least  1  know 
what  she  was,  and  what  she  has  given  me  ;  while  this 
one  comes  surrounded  by  all  the  forebodings  of  the 
unknown.  What  does  she  hide  in  the  clouds  which 
mantle  her  ?  Is  it  the  storm,  or  the  sunshine  ?  Just 
now  it  rains,  and  I  feel  my  mind  as  gloomy  as  the  sky. 
I  have  a  holiday  to-day  ;  but  what  can  one  do  with  a 
rainy  day  ?  I  walk  up  and  down  my  attic  out  of  tem- 
per, and  I  determine  to  light  my  fire. 


IO  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

Unfortunately  the  matches  are  bad,  the  chimney 
smokes,  the  wood  goes  out !  I  throw  down  my  bellows 
in  disgust,  and  sink  into  my  old  arm-chair. 

In  truth,  why  should  I  rejoice  to  see  the  birth  of 
a  new  year  ?  All  those  who  are  already  in  the  streets, 
with  the  holiday  looks  and  smiling  faces — do  they  un- 
derstand what  makes  them  so  gay?  Do  they  even 
know  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  holiday,  or  whence 
comes  the  custom  of  New-Year's  gifts  ? 

Here  my  mind  pauses  to  prove  to  itself  its  su- 
periority over  that  of  the  vulgar.  I  make  a  paren- 
thesis in  my  ill-temper  in  favor  of  my  vanity,  and  I 
bring  together  all  the  evidence  which  my  knowledge 
can  produce 

(The  old  Romans  divided  the  year  into  ten  months 
only  ;  it  was  Numa  Pompilius  who  added  January  and 
February.  The  former  took  its  name  from  Janus,  to 
whom  it  was  dedicated.  As  it  opened  the  new  year, 
they  surrounded  its  commencement  with  good  omens, 
and  thence  came  the  custom  of  visits  between  neigh- 
bors, of  wishing  happiness,  and  of  New-Years  gifts. 
The  presents  given  by  the  Romans  were  symbolic. 
They  consisted  of  dry  figs,  dates,  honeycomb,  as  em- 
blems of  "the  sweetness  of  the  auspices  under  which 
the  year  should  begin  its  course,"  and  a  small  piece  of 
money  called  stips,  which  foreboded  riches.) 

Here  I  close  the  parenthesis,  and  return  to  my  ill- 
humor.  The  little  speech*  I  have  just  addressed  to 
myself  has  restored  me    my  self-satisfaction,  but  made 

*  Spitck,  in  the  original. 


THE  ATTIC  NEW-YEAR'S   GIFTS.  IT 

me  more  dissatisfied  with  others.  I  could  now  enjoy 
my  breakfast ;  but  the  portress  has  forgotten  my  morn- 
ing's milk,  and  the  pot  of  preserves  is  empty  !  Any 
one  else  would  have  been  vexed :  as  for  me,  I  affect 
the  most  supreme  indifference.  There  remains  a  hard 
crust,  which  I  break  by  main  strength,  and  which  I 
carelessly  nibble,  as  a  man  far  above  the  vanities  of 
the  world  and  of  fresh  rolls. 

However,  I  do  not  know  why  my  thoughts  should 
grow  more  gloomy  by  reason  of  the  difficulties  of 
mastication.  I  once  read  the  story  of  an  Englishman 
who  hanged  himself  because  they  had  brought  him 
his  tea  without  sugar.  There  are  hours  in  life  when 
the  most  trifling  cross  takes  the  form  of  a  calamity. 
Our  tempers  are  like  an  opera-glass,  which  makes  the 
object  small  or  great  according  to  the  end  you  look 
through. 

Generally,  the  prospect  which  opens  out  before  my 
window  delights  me.  It  is  a  mountain  range  of  roofs, 
with  ridges  crossing,  interlacing,  and  piled  on  one 
another,  and  upon  which  tall  chimneys  raise  their  peaks. 
It  was  but  yesterday  that  they  had  an  Alpine  aspect 
to  me,  and  I  waited  for  the  first  snow-storm  to  see 
glaciers  among  them  ;  to-day,  I  only  see  tiles  and  stone 
flues.  The  pigeons,  which  assisted  my  rural  illusions, 
seem  no  more  than  miserable  birds  which  have  mis- 
taken the  roof  for  the  back  yard ;  the  smoke  which 
rises  in  light  clouds,  instead  of  making  me  dream  of 
the  panting  of  Vesuvius,  reminds  me  of  kitchen  prepara- 
tions and  dish-water;    and    lastly,   the   telegraph,    that 


12  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

I  see  far  off  on  the  old  tower  of  Montmartre,  has  the 
effect  of  a  vile  gallows  stretching  its  arms  over  the 
city. 

My  eyes,  thus  hurt  by  all  they  meet,  fall  upon  the 
great  man's  house  which  faces  my  attic. 

The  influence  of  New-Year's  Day  is  visible  there. 
The  servants  have  an  air  of  eagerness  proportioned  to 
the  value  of  their  New-Year's  gifts,  received  or  ex- 
pected. I  see  the  master  of  the  house  crossing  the 
court  with  the  morose  look  of  a  man  who  is  forced  to 
be  generous ;  and  the  visitors  increase,  followed  by 
shop  porters  who  carry  flowers,  band-boxes,  or  toys. 
All  at  once  the  great  gates  are  opened,  and  a  new 
carnage,  drawn  by  thorough-bred  horses,  draws  up 
before  the  door-steps.  They  are,  without  doubt,  the 
New-Year's  gift  presented  to  the  mistress  of  the  house 
by  her  husband ;  for  she  comes  herself  to  look  at  the 
new  equipage.  Very  soon  she  gets  into  it  with  a  little 
girl,  all  streaming  with  laces,  feathers,  and  velvets,  and 
loaded  with  parcels  which  she  goes  to  distribute  as 
New-Year's  gifts.  The  door  is  shut,  the  windows 
are  drawn  up,  the  carriage  sets  off. 

Thus  all  the  world  are  exchanging  good  wishes  and 
presents  to-day  :  I  alone  have  nothing  to  give  or  to  re- 
ceive. Poor  Solitary  !  I  do  not  even  know  one  chosen 
being  for  whom  I  might  offer  a  prayer. 

Then  let  my  wishes  for  a  happy  New  Year  go,  and 
seek  out  all  my  unknown  friends — lost  in  the  multitude 
which  murmurs  like  the  ocean  at  my  feet! 

To  you  first,  hermits  in  cities,  for  whom  death  and 


THE  ATTIC  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFTS. 


13 


poverty  have  created  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd  !  unhappy  labourers,  who  are  condemned  to  toil 
in  melancholy,  and  eat  your  daily  bread  in  silence  and 
desertion,  and  whom  God  has  withdrawn  from  the  in- 
toxicating pangs  of  love  or  friendship ! 

To  you,  fond  dreamers,  who  pass  through  life  with 
your  eyes  turned  toward  some  polar  star,  while  you 
tread  with  indifference  over  the  rich  harvests  of  reality ! 

To  you,  honest  fathers,  who  lengthen  out  the  even- 
ing to  maintain  your  families  !  to  you,  poor  widows, 
weeping  and  working  by  a  cradle !  to  you,  young  men, 
resolutely  set  to  open  for  yourselves  a  path  in  life, 
large  enough  to  lead  through  it  the  wife  of  your 
choice !  to  you,  all  brave  soldiers  of  work  and  of  self- 
sacrifice  ! 

To  you,  lastly,  whatever  your  title  and  your  name, 
who  love  good,  who  pity  the  suffering ;  who  walk 
through  the  world  like  the  symbolical  Virgin  of  Byzan- 
tium, with  both  arms  open  to  the  human  race  ! 

Here  I  am  suddenly  interrupted  by  loud  and  in- 
creasing chirpings.  I  look  about  me :  my  window  is 
surrounded   with   sparrows  picking   up   the  crumbs  of 


i 


14 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


bread  which  in  my  brown  study  I  had  just  scattered  on 
the  roof.  At  this  sight  a  flash  of  light  broke  upon  my 
saddened  heart.  I  deceived  myself  just  now,  when  I 
complained  that  I  had  nothing  to  give :  thanks  to  me, 
the  sparrows  of  this  part  of  the  town  will  have  their 
New-Year's  gifts ! 

Twelve  o'clock. — A  knock  at  my  door ;  a  poor  girl 
comes  in,  and  greets  me  by  name.  At  first  I  do  not  rec- 
ollect her ;  but  she  looks  at  me  and  smiles.  Ah  !  it  is 
Paulette  !  But  it  is  almost  a  year  since  I  have  seen  her, 
and  Paulette  is  no  longer  the  same  :  the  other  day  she 
was  a  child,  now  she  is  almost  a  young  woman. 

Paulette  is  thin,  pale,  and  miserably  clad  ;  but  she 
has  always  the  same  open  and  straightforward  look — the 
same  mouth,  smiling  at  every  word,  as  if  to  court  your 
sympathy — the  same  voice,  somewhat  timid,  yet  ex- 
pressing fondness.  Paulette  is  not  pretty — she  is  even 
thought  plain  ;  as  for  me,  I  think  her  charming.  Per- 
haps that  is  not  on  her  account,  but  on  my  own.  Paul- 
ette appears  to  me  as  a  part  of  one  of  my  happiest  rec- 
ollections. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  public  holiday.  Our  prin- 
cipal buildings  were  illuminated  with  festoons  of  fire,  a 
thousand  flags  waved  in  the  night  winds,  and  the  fire- 
works had  just  shot  forth  their  spouts  of  flame  into  the 
midst  of  the  Champ  de  Mars.  All  of  a  sudden,  one  of 
those  unaccountable  alarms  which  strike  a  multitude 
with  panic  fell  upon  the  dense  crowd  :  they  cry  out, 
they  rush  on  headlong ;  the  weaker  ones  fall,  and  the 
frightened  crowd  tramples  them  down  in  its  convulsive 


A  poor  girl  comes  in,  and  greets  me  by  name. 


THE  ATTIC  NEW-YEAR'S  GIETS.  xr 

struggles.  I  escaped  from  the  confusion  by  a  miracle, 
and  was  hastening  away  when  the  cries  of  a  perishing 
child  arrested  me :  I  re-entered  that  human  chaos,  and, 
after  unheard-of  exertions,  I  brought  Paulette  out  of  it 
at  the  peril  of  my  life. 

That  was  two  years  ago  :  since  then  I  had  not  seen 
the  child  again  but  at  long  intervals,  and  I  had  almost 
forgotten  her ;  but  Paulette's  memory  was  that  of  a 
grateful  heart,  and  she  came  at  the  beginning  of  the  year 
to  offer  me  her  wishes  for  my  happiness.  She  brought 
me,  besides,  a  wallflower  in  full  bloom  ;  she  herself  had 
planted  and  reared  it :  it  was  something  that  belonged 
wholly  to  herself ;  for  it  was  by  her  care,  her  perse- 
verance, and  her  patience,  that  she  had  obtained  it. 

The  wallflower  had  grown  in  a  common  pot  ;  but 
Paulette,  who  is  a  bandbox-maker,  had  put  it  into  a  case 
of  varnished  paper,  ornamented  with  arabesques.  These 
might  have  been  in  better  taste,  but  I  did  not  feel  the 
attention  and  good-will  the  less. 

This  unexpected  present,  the  little  girl's  modest  blush- 
es, the  compliments  she  stammered  out,  dispelled,  as  by 
a  sunbeam,  the  kind  of  mist  which  had  gathered  round 
my  mind ;  my  thoughts  suddenly  changed  from  the 
leaden  tints  of  evening  to  the  brightest  colors  of  dawn. 
I  made  Paulette  sit  down,  and  questioned  her  with  a 
light  heart. 

At  first  the  little  girl  replied  by  monosyllables ;  but 
very  soon  the  tables  were  turned,  and  it  was  I  who  in- 
terrupted with  short  interjections  her  long  and  con- 
fidential talk.     The  poor  child  leads  a  hard   life.     She 


]6  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

was  left  an  orphan  long  since,  with  a  brother  and  sister, 
and  lives  with  an  old  grandmother,  who  has  brought 
tJicm  tip  to  poverty,  as  she  always  calls  it. 

However,  Paulette  now  helps  her  to  make  band- 
boxes, her  little  sister  Perrine  begins  to  use  the  needle, 
and  her  brother  Henry  is  apprentice  to  a  printer.  All 
would  go  well  if  it  were  not  for  losses  and  want  of  work 
— if  it  were  not  for  clothes  which  wear  out,  for  appetites 
which  grow  larger,  and  for  the  winter,  when  you  can 
not  get  sunshine  for  nothing.  Paulette  complains  that 
her  candles  go  too  quickly,  and  that  her  wood  costs  too 
much.  The  fireplace  in  their  garret  is  so  large  that  a 
faggot  makes  no  more  show  in  it  than  a  match  ;  it  is 
so  near  the  roof  that  the  wind  blows  the  rain  down  it, 
and  in  winter  it  hails  upon  the  hearth  ;  so  they  have 
left  off  using  it.  Henceforth  they  must  be  content  with 
an  earthen  chafing-dish,  upon  which  they  cook  their 
meals.  The  grandmother  had  often  spoken  of  a  stove 
that  was  for  sale  at  the  broker's  close  by  ;  but  he  asked 
seven  francs  for  it,  and  the  times  are  too  hard  for  such 
an  expense  :  the  family,  therefore,  resign  themselves  to 
cold  for  economy  ! 

As  Paulette  spoke,  I  felt  more  and  more  that  I  was 
losing  my  fretfulness  and  low  spirits.  The  first  dis- 
closures of  the  little  bandbox-maker  created  within  me  a 
wish  that  soon  became  a  plan.  I  questioned  her  about 
her  daily  occupations,  and  she  informed  me  that  on 
leaving  me  she  must  go,  with  her  brother,  her  sister, 
and  grandmother,  to  the  different  people  for  whom  they 
work.     My  plan  was  immediately  settled.     I    told   the 


THE  ATTIC  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFTS. 


17 


child  that  I  would  go  to  see  her  in  the  evening,  and  I 
sent  her  away  with  fresh  thanks. 

I  placed  the  wallflower  in  the  open  window,  where  a 
ray  of  sunshine  bid  it  welcome  :  the  birds  were  singing 
around,  the  sky  had  cleared  up,  and  the  day,  which  be- 
gan so  loweringly,  had  become  bright.  I  sang  as  I  moved 
about  my  room,  and,  having  hastily  put  on  my  hat  and 
coat,  I  went  out. 

Tlircc  d clock. — All  is  settled  with  my  neighbor,  the 
chimney-doctor  ;  he  will  repair  my  old  stove,  and  an- 
swers for  its  being  as  good  as  new.  At  five  o'clock  we 
are  to  set  out,  and  put  it  up  in  Paillette's  grandmother's 
room. 

Midnight. — All  has  gone  off  well.  At  the  hour  agreed 
upon,  I  was  at  the  old  bandbox-maker's  ;  she  was  still 
out.  My  Piedmontese  *  fixed  the  stove,  while  I  arranged 
a  dozen  logs  in  the  great  fireplace,  taken  from  my 
winter  stock.  I  shall  make  up  for  them  bv  warming 
myself  with  walking,  or  by  going  to  bed  earlier. 

My  heart  beat  at  every  step  which  was  heard  on  the 
staircase  ;  I  trembled  lest  they  should  interrupt  me  in 
my  preparations,  and  should  thus  spoil  my  intended  sur- 
prise. But  no — see  everything  ready  :  the  lighted  stove 
murmurs  gently,  the  little  lamp  burns  upon  the  table, 
and  a  bottle  of  oil  for  it  is  provided  on  the  shelf.  The 
chimney-doctor  is  gone.  Now,  my  fear  lest  they  should 
come  is  changed  into  impatience  at  their  not  coming. 
At  last   I   hear  children's  voices  :  here   they  are :  they 

*  In  Paris  a  chimney-sweeper  is  named  "  Piedmontese  "   or  "  Savoyard," 
as  they  usually  come  from  that  country. 


1 8  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

push  open  the  door  and  rush  in — but  they  all  stop  in 
astonishment. 

At  the  sight  of  the  lamp,  the  stove,  and  the  visitor, 
who  stands  there  like  a  magician  in  the  midst  of  these 
wonders,  they  draw  back  almost  frightened.  Paulette  is 
the  first,  to  comprehend  it,  and  the  arrival  of  the  grand- 
mother, who  is  more  slowly  mounting  the  stairs,  finishes 
the  explanation.     Then  come  tears,  ecstasies,  thanks  ! 

But  the  wonders  are  not  yet  ended.  The  little  sister 
opens  the  oven,  and  discovers  some  chestnuts  just 
roasted  ;  the  grandmother  puts  her  hand  on  the  bottles 
of  cider  arranged  on  the  dresser;  and  I  draw  forth 
from  the  basket  that  I  have  hidden  a  cold  tongue,  a  pot 
of  butter,  and  some  fresh  rolls. 

Now  their  wonder  turns  into  admiration  ;  the  little 
family  have  never  seen  such  a  feast !  They  lay  the 
cloth,  they  sit  down,  they  eat ;  it  is  a  complete  banquet 
for  all,  and  each  contributes  his  share  to  it.  I  had 
brought  only  the  supper :  and  the  bandbox-maker  and 
her  children  supplied  the  enjoyment. 

What  bursts  of  laughter  at  nothing !  What  a  hub- 
bub of  questions  which  waited  for  no  reply,  of  replies 
which  answered  no  question  !  The  old  woman  herself 
shared  in  the  wild  merriment  of  the  little  ones !  I  have 
always  been  struck  at  the  ease  with  which  the  poor  for- 
get their  wretchedness.  Being  only  used  to  live  for 
the  present,  they  make  a  gain  of  every  pleasure  as  soon 
as  it  offers  itself.  But  the  surfeited  rich  are  more  diffi- 
cult to  satisfy:  they  require  time  and  everything  to  suit 
before  they  will  consent  to  be  happy. 


THE  ATTIC  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFTS.  IQ 

The  evening  has  passed  like  a  moment.  The  old 
woman  told  me  the  history  of  her  life,  sometimes  smil- 
ing, sometimes  drying  her  eyes.  Perrine  sang  an  old 
ballad  with  her  fresh,  young  voice.  Henry  told  us 
what  he  knows  of  the  great  writers  of  the  day,  to  whom 
he  has  to  carry  their  proofs.  At  last  we  were  obliged  to 
separate,  not  without  fresh  thanks  on  the  part  of  the 
happy  family. 

I  have  come  home  slowly,  ruminating  with  a  full 
heart,  and  pure  enjoyment,  on  the  simple  events  of  my 
evening.  It  has  given  me  much  comfort  and  much  in- 
struction. Now,  no  New-Year's  Day  will  come  amiss 
to  me ;  I  know  that  no  one  is  so  unhappy  as  to  have 
nothing  to  give  and  nothing  to  receive. 

As  I  came  in,  I  met  my  rich  neighbour's  new  equi- 
page. She,  too,  had  just  returned  from  her  evening's 
party  ;  and,  as  she  sprang  from  the  carriage-step  with 
feverish  impatience,  I  heard  her  murmur — At  last  / 

I,  when  I  left  Paulette's  family,  said — So  soon! 


CHAPTER    II. 
THE  CARNIVAL. 

February  20th. — What  a  noise  out  of  doors  !  What  is 
the  meaning  of  these  shouts  and  cries  ?  Ah !  I  recol- 
lect :  this  is  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival,  and  the  maskers 
are  passing. 

Christianity  has  not  been  able  to  abolish  the  noisy 
bacchanalian  festivals  of  the  pagan  times,  but  it  has 
changed  the  names.  That  which  it  has  given  to  these 
"  days  of  liberty  "  announces  the  ending  of  the  feasts, 
and  the  month  of  fasting  which  should  follow  ;  "carn-i- 
val"  means  literally  "down  zctt/i  flcsli  meat!"  It  is  a 
forty  days'  farewell  to  the  "  blessed  pullets  and  fat 
hams,"  so  celebrated  by  Pantagruel's  minstrel.  Man 
prepares  for  privation  by  satiety,  and  finishes  his  sin 
thoroughly  before  he  begins  to  repent. 

Why,   in  all  ages  and  among  every  people,   do  we 


THE    CARNIVAL.  21 

meet  with  some  one  of  these  mad  festivals?  Must  we 
believe  that  it  requires  such  an  effort  for  men  to  be 
reasonable,  that  the  weaker  ones  have  need  of  rests  at  in- 
tervals? The  monks  of  La  Trappe,  who  are  condemned 
to  silence  by  their  rule,  are  allowed  to  speak  once  in  a 
month,  and  on  this  day  they  all  talk  at  once  from  the 
rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  same  in  the  worlt?.  As  we  are 
obliged  all  the  year  to  be  decent,  orderly,  and  reason- 
able, we  make  up  for  such  a  long  restraint  during  the 
Carnival.  It  is  a  door  opened  to  the  incongruous  fancies 
and  wishes  which  have  hitherto  been  crowded  back 
into  a  corner  of  our  brain.  For  a  moment  the  slaves 
become  the  masters,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Saturnalia, 
and  everything  is  given  up  to  the  "  fools  of  the  family." 

The  shouts  in  the  Square  redouble ;  the  troops  of 
masks  increase — on  foot,  in  carriages,  and  on  horseback. 
It  is  now  who  can  attract  the  most  attention  by  making 
a  figure  for  a  few  hours,  or  by  exciting  curiosity  or 
envy ;  to-morrow  they  will  all  return,  dull  and  ex- 
hausted, to  the  employments  and  troubles  of  yesterday. 

Alas !  thought  I  with  vexation,  each  of  us  is  like 
these  masqueraders ;  our  whole  life  is  often  but  an  un- 
sightly Carnival !  And  yet  man  has  need  of  holidays, 
to  relax  his  mind,  rest  his  body,  and  open  his  heart. 
Can  he  not  have  them,  then,  with  these  coarse  pleas- 
ures? Economists  have  been  long  inquiring  what  is  the 
best  disposal  of  the  industry  of  the  human  race.  Ah  !  if 
I  could  only  discover  the  best  disposal  of  its  leisure !  It 
is  easy  enough  to  find  it  work ;  but  who  will  find  it  re- 


22  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

laxation?  Work  supplies  the  daily  bread;  but  it  is 
cheerfulness  which  gives  it  a  relish.  O  philosophers! 
go  in  quest  of  pleasure !  find  us  amusements  without 
brutality,  enjoyments  without  selfishness ;  in  a  word,  in- 
vent a  Carnival,  which  will  please  everybody,  and  bring 
shame  to  no  one. 

Three  o  clock. — I  have  just  shut  my  window,  and 
stirred  up  my  fire.  As  this  is  a  holiday  for  everybody, 
I  will  make  it  one  for  myself  too.  So  I  light  the  little 
lamp  over  which,  on  grand  occasions,  I  make  a  cup  of 
the  coffee  that  my  portress's  son  brought  from  the  Le- 
vant, and  I  look  in  my  bookcase  for  one  of  my  favourite 
authors. 

First,  here  is  the  amusing  parson  of  Meudon  ;  but  his 
characters  are  too  fond  of  talking  slang  : — Voltaire ;  but 
he  disheartens  men  by  always  bantering  them : — 
Moliere ;  but  he  hinders  one's  laughter  by  making  one 
think : — Lesage  ;  let  us  stop  at  him.  Being  profound 
rather  than  grave,  he  preaches  virtue  while  ridiculing 
vice ;  if  bitterness  is  sometimes  to  be  found  in  his 
writings,  it  is  always  in  the  garb  of  mirth  :  he  sees  the 
miseries  of  the  world  without  despising  it,  and  knows 
its  cowardly  tricks  without  hating  it. 

Let  us  call  up  all  the  heroes  of  his  book.  Gil  Bias, 
Fabrice,  Sangrado,  the  Archbishop  of  Granada,  the 
Duke  of  Lerma,  Aurora,  Scipio !  Ye  gay  or  graceful 
figures,  rise  before  my  eyes,  people  my  solitude ;  bring 
hither  for  my  amusement  the  world-carnival,  of  which 
you  are  the  brilliant  maskers ! 

Unfortunately,    at    the    very    moment    I    made    this 


THE   CARNIVAL. 


23 


invocation,  I  recollected  I  had  a  letter  to  write  which 
could  not  be  put  off.  One  of  my  attic  neighbours 
came  yesterday  to  ask  me  to  do  it.  He  is  a  cheerful 
old  man,  and  has  a  passion  for  pictures  and  prints. 
He  comes  home  almost  every  day  with  a  drawing  or 
painting — probably  of  little  value ;  for  I  know  he  lives 
penuriously,  and  even  the  letter  that  I  am  to  write  for 
him  shows  his  poverty.  His  only  son,  who  was  married 
in  England,  is  just  dead,  and  his  widow — left  without 
any  means,  and  with  an  old  mother  and  a  child — had 
written  to  beg  for  a  home.  M.  Antoine  asked  me  first 
to  translate  the  letter,  and  then  to  write  a  refusal.  I  had 
promised  that  he  should  have  this  answer  to-day : 
before  everything,  let  us  fulfil  our  promises. 

The  sheet  of  "  Bath  "  paper  is  before  me,  I  have 
dipped  my  pen  into  the  ink,  and  I  rub  my  forehead  to 
invite  forth  a  sally  of  ideas,  when  I  perceive  that  I 
have  not  my  dictionary.  Now,  a  Parisian  who  would 
speak  English  without  a  dictionary  is  like  a  child 
without  leading-strings ;  the  ground  trembles  under 
him,  and  he  stumbles  at  the  first  step.  I  run  then  to 
the  bookbinder's  where  I  left  my  Johnson,  and  who 
lives  close  by  in  the  Square. 

The  door  is  half  open  ;  I  hear  low  groans ;  I  enter 
without  knocking,  and  I  see  the  bookbinder  by  the 
bedside  of  his  fellow-lodger.  This  latter  has  a  violent 
fever  and  delirium.  Pierre  looks  at  him  perplexed  and 
out  of  humour.  I  learn  from  him  that  his  comrade 
was  not  able  to  get  up  in  the  morning,  and  that  since 
then  he  has  become  worse  every  hour. 


24 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


I  ask  if  they  have  sent  for  a  doctor. 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed  !  "  replied  Pierre  roughly  ;  "  one 
must  have  money  in  one's  pocket  for  that,  and  this 
fellow  has  only  debts  instead  of  savings." 

"  But  you,"  said  I,  rather  astonished  ;  "are  you  not 
his  friend  ?  " 

"  Friend  !  "  interrupted  the  bookbinder.  "  Yes,  as 
much  as  the  shaft-horse  is  friend  to  the  leader — on 
condition  that  each  will  take  his  share  of  the  draught, 
and  eat  his  feed  by  himself." 

"  You  do  not  intend,  however,  to  leave  him  without 
any  help  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  he  may  keep  in  his  bed  till  to-morrow,  as 
I'm  going  to  the  ball." 

"  You  mean  to  leave  him  alone  ?  " 

"  Well !  must  I  miss  a  party  of  pleasure  at  Court- 
ville*  because  this  fellow  is  light-headed?"  asked 
Pierre  sharply.  "  I  have  promised  to  meet  some  friends 
at  old  Desnoyer's.  Those  who  are  sick  may  take  their 
broth  ;  my  physic  is  white  wine." 

So  saying,  he  untied  a  bundle,  out  of  which  he  took 
the  fancy  costume  of  a  waterman,  and  proceeded  to 
dress  himself  in  it. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  awaken  some  fellow-feeling  for  the 
unfortunate  man  who  lay  groaning  there,  close  by  him  ; 
being  entirely  taken  up  with  the  thoughts  of  his  ex- 
pected pleasure,  Pierre  would  hardly  so  much  as  hear 
me.  At  last  his  coarse  selfishness  provoked  me.  I 
began  reproaching  instead  of  remonstrating  with  him, 

*  A    Paris  Vauxhall. 


THE    CARNIVAL.  2$ 

and  1  declared  him  responsible  for  the  consequences 
which  such  a  desertion  must  bring  upon  the  sick 
man. 

At  this  the  bookbinder,  who  was  just  going,  stopped 
with  an  oath,  and  stamped  his  foot.  "Am  I  to  spend 
my  Carnival  in  heating  water  for  foot-baths,  pray  ?  " 

"  You  must  not  leave  your  comrade  to  die  without 
help  !  "  I  replied. 

"  Let  him  go  to  the  hospital,  then  !  " 

"  How  can  he  by  himself?  " 

Pierre  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  take  him,"  resumed  he;  "be- 
sides, I  shall  get  rid  of  him  sooner.  Come,  get  up, 
comrade  !  "  He  shook  his  comrade,  who  had  not  taken 
off  his  clothes.  I  observed  that  he  was  too  weak  to 
walk,  but  the  bookbinder  would  not  listen  :  he  made 
him  get  up,  and  half  dragged,  half  supported  him  to 
the  lodge  of  the  porter,  who  ran  for  a  hackney  car- 
riage. I  saw  the  sick  man  get  into  it,  almost  fainting, 
with  the  impatient  waterman  ;  and  they  both  set  off, 
one  perhaps  to  die,  the  other  to  dine  at  Courtville 
gardens ! 

Six  d clock. — I  have  been  to  knock  at  my  neighbour's 
door,  who  opened  it  himself;  and  I  have  given  him 
his  letter,  finished  at  last,  and  directed  to  his  son's 
widow.  M.  Antoine  thanked  me  gratefully,  and  made 
me  sit  down. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  into  the  attic  of 
the  old  amateur.  Curtains  stained  with  damp,  and 
hanging  down  in  rags,   a  cold    stove,  a   bed  of  straw, 


26 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


two  broken  chairs,  composed  all  the  furniture.  At 
the  end  of  the  room  were  a  great  number  of  prints 
in  a  heap,  and  paintings  without  frames  turned  against 
the  wall. 

At  the  moment  I  came  in,  the  old  man  was  making 
his  dinner  on  some  hard  crusts  of  bread,  which  he 
was  soaking  in  a  glass  of  eau  sucrte.  He  perceived 
that  my  eyes  fell  upon  his  hermit  fare,  and  he  looked 
a  little  ashamed. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tempt  you  in  my  supper,  neigh- 
bour," said  he  with 
a  smile. 

I  replied  that  at 
least  I  thought  it  a 
very  philosophical 
one  for  the  Carnival. 
M.  Antoine  shook 
his  head,  and  went 
on  again  with  his 
supper. 

"  Every  one  keeps 
his  holidays  in  his 
own  way,"  resumed 
he,  beginning  again  to  dip  a  crust  into  his  glass.  "  There 
are  several  sorts  of  epicures,  and  all  feasts  are  not  meant 
to  regale  the  palate  ;  there  are  some  also  for  the  ears 
and  the  eyes." 

I  looked  involuntarily  around  me,  as  if  to  seek  for 
the  invisible  banquet  which  could  make  up  to  him 
for  such  a  supper. 


THE    CARNIVAL. 


27 


Without  doubt  he  understood  me ;  for  he  got  up 
slowly,  and,  with  the  magisterial  air  of  a  man  confident 
in  what  he  is  about  to  do,  he  rummaged  behind  several 
picture  frames,  drew  forth  a  painting,  over  which 
he  passed  his  hand,  and  silently  placed  it  under  the 
light  of  the  lamp. 

It  represented  a  fine-looking  old  man,  seated  at 
table  with  his  wife,  his  daughter,  and  his  children, 
and  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  musicians  who 
appeared  in  the  background.  At  first  sight  I  recog- 
nized the  subject,  which  I  had  often  admired  at  the 
Louvre,  and  I  declared  it  to  be  a  splendid  copy  of 
Jordaens. 

"A  copy!"  cried  M.  Antoine ;  "say  an  original, 
neighbour,  and  an  original  retouched  by  Rubens  !  Look 
closer  at  the  head  of  the  old  man,  the  dress  of  the 
young  woman,  and  the  accessories.  One  can  count  the 
pencil  strokes  of  the  Hercules  of  painters.  It  is  not 
only  a  masterpiece,  sir;  it  is  a  treasure — a  relic!  The 
picture  at  the  Louvre  may  be  a  pearl,  this  is  a  dia- 
mond ! " 

And  resting  it  against  the  stove,  so  as  to  place  it 
in  the  best  light,  he  fell  again  to  soaking  his  crusts, 
without  taking  his  eyes  off  the  wonderful  picture. 
One  would  have  said  that  the  sight  of  it  gave  the 
crusts  an  unexpected  relish,  for  he  chewed  them  slowly, 
and  emptied  his  glass  by  little  sips.  His  shrivelled 
features  became  smooth,  his  nostrils  expanded  ;  it  was 
indeed,  as  he  said  himself,  a  feast  of  the  eyes. 

"  You   see  that  I  also  have  my  treat,"  resumed  he, 


28  AAr  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

nodding  his  head  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "  Others 
may  run  after  dinners  and  balls  ;  as  for  me,  this  is  the 
pleasure  I  give  myself  for  my  Carnival." 

"  But  if  this  painting  is  really  so  precious,"  replied  I, 
"  it  ought  to  be  worth  a  high  price." 

"  Eh  !  eh  !  "  said  M.  Antoine,  with  an  air  of  proud 
indifference.  "  In  good  times,  a  good  judge  might 
value  it  at  somewhere  about  twenty  thousand  francs." 

I  started  back. 

"  And  you  have  bought  it  ?  "  cried  I. 

"  For  nothing,"  replied  he,  lowering  his  voice. 
"  These  brokers  are  asses ;  mine  mistook  this  for  a 
student's  copy  ;  he  let  me  have  it  for  fifty  louis,  ready 
money !  This  morning  I  took  them  to  him,  and  now  he 
wishes  to  be  off  the  bargain." 

"  This  morning !  "  repeated  I,  involuntarily  casting 
my  eyes  on  the  letter  containing  the  refusal  that  M. 
Antoine  had  made  me  write  to  his  son's  widow,  and 
which  was  still  on  the  little  table. 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  exclamation,  and  went 
on  contemplating  the  work  of  Jordaens  in  a  kind  of 
ecstasy. 

"  What  a  knowledge  of  chiaroscuro  ! "  murmured 
he,  biting  his  last  crust  in  delight.  "  What  relief !  what 
fire !  Where  can  one  find  such  transparency  of  color  ! 
such  magical  lights !  such  force  !  such  nature  !  " 

As  I  was  listening  to  him  in  silence,  he  mistook  my 
astonishment  for  admiration,  and  clapped  me  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  You  are  dazzled,"  said  he  merrily  ;  "  you  did  not 


THE   CARNIVAL.  2Q_ 

expect  such  a  treasure !     What  do  you  say  to  the  bar- 
gain I  have  made?  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  replied  I  gravely ;  "  but  I  think  you 
might  have  done  better." 

M.  Antoine  raised  his  head. 

"  How  !  "  cried  he  ;  "  do  you  take  me  for  a  man 
likely  to  be  deceived  about  the  merit  or  value  of  a 
painting  ?  "4 

"  I  neither  doubt  your  taste  nor  your  skill ;  but  I 
can  not  help  thinking  that,  for  the  price  of  this  picture 
of  a  family  party,  you  might  have  had — " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"The  family  itself,  sir." 

The  old  amateur  cast  a  look  at  me,  not  of  anger, 
but  of  contempt.  In  his  eyes  I  had  evidently  just 
proved  myself  a  barbarian,  incapable  of  understand- 
ing the  arts,  and  unworthy  of  enjoying  them.  He 
got  up  without  answering  me,  hastily  took  up  the 
Jordaens,  and  replaced  it  in  its  hiding-place  behind 
the  prints. 

It  was  a  sort  of  dismissal ;  I  took  leave  of  him,  and 
went  away. 

Seven  o'clock. — When  I  come  in  again,  I  find  my 
water  boiling  over  my  little  lamp,  and  I  busy  myself 
in  grinding  my  Mocha,  and  setting  out  my  coffee 
things. 

The  getting  coffee  ready   is  the  most  delicate  and 
most  attractive  of  domestic  operations  to  one  who  lives 
alone ;    it    is   the   grand    work    of    a    bachelor's    house- 
keeping. 
3 


3Q 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


Coffee  is,  so  to  say,  just  the  mid-point  between 
bodily  and  spiritual  nourishment.  It  acts  agreeably, 
and  at  the  same  time,  upon  the  senses  and  the 
thoughts.-  Its  very  fragrance  gives  a  sort  of  delight- 
ful activity  to  the  wits ;  it  is  a  genius  who  lends  wings 
to  our  fancy,  and  transports  it  to  the  land  of  the 
Arabian  Nights. 

When  I  am  buried  in  my  old  easy-chair,  my  feet 
on  the  fender  before  a  blazing  fire,  my  ear  soothed  by 
the  singing  of  the  coffee-pot  which  seems  to  gossip  with 
my  fire-irons,  the  sense  of  smell  gently  excited  by  the 
aroma  of  the  Arabian  bean,  and  my  eyes  shaded  by 
my  cap  pulled  down  over  them,  it  often  seems  as  if 
each  cloud  of  the  fragrant  steam  took  a  distinct  form. 
As  in  the  mirages  of  the  desert,  in  each  as  it  rises,  I 
see  some  image  of  which  my  mind  had  been  longing 
for  the  reality. 

At  first  the  vapour  increases,  and  its  colour  deepens. 
I  see  a  cottage  on  a  hill-side  :  behind  is  a  garden  shut  in 
by  a  whitethorn  hedge,  and  through  the  garden  runs  a 
brook,  on  the  banks  of  which  I  hear  the  bees  hum- 
ming. 

Then  the  view  opens  still  more.  See  those  fields 
planted  with  apple-trees,  and  in  which  I  distinguish  a 
plough  and  horses  waiting  for  their  master  ?  Farther  on, 
in  a  part  of  the  wood  which  rings  with  the  sound  of  the 
axe,  I  perceive  the  woodsman's  hut,  roofed  with  turf 
and  branches;  and  in  the  midst  of  all  these  rural  pictures 
I  seem  to  see  a  figure  of  myself  gliding  about.  It  is  my 
ghost  walking  in  my  dream  ! 


THE    CARNIVAL. 


31 


The  bubbling  of  the  water,  ready  to  boil  over,  com- 
pels me  to  break  off  my  meditations,  in  order  to  fill 
up  the  coffee-pot.  I  then  remember  that  1  have  no 
cream;  I  take  my  tin  can  off  the  hook  and -go  down 
to  the  milkwoman's. 

Mother  Denis  is  a  hale  countrywoman  from  Savoy, 
which  she  left  when  quite  young  ;  and,  contrary  to  the 
custom  of  the  Savoyards,  she  has  not  gone  back  to  it 
again.  She  has  neither  husband  nor  child,  notwith- 
standing the  title  they  give  her ;  but  her  kindness, 
which  never  sleeps,  makes  her  worthy  of  the  name  of 
mother. 

A  brave  creature !  Left  by  herself  in  the  battle  of 
life,  she  makes  good  her  humble  place  in  it  by  work- 
ing, singing,  helping  others,  and  leaving  the  rest  to 
God. 

At  the  door  of  the  milk-shop  I  hear  loud  bursts  of 
laughter.  In  one  of  the  corners  of  the  shop  three  chil- 
dren are  sitting  on  the  ground.  They  wear  the  sooty 
dress  of  Savoyard  boys,  and  in  their  hands  they  hold 
large  slices  of  bread  and  cheese.  The  youngest  is  be- 
smeared up  to  the  eyes  with  his,  and  that  is  the  reason 
of  their  mirth. 

Mother  Denis  points  them  out  to  me. 

"  Look  at  the  little  lambs,  how  they  enjoy  them- 
selves !  "  said  she,  putting  her  hand  on  the  head  of  the 
little  glutton. 

"  He  has  had  no  breakfast,"  puts  in  one  of  the  others 
by  way  of  excuse. 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  said  the  mitkwoman  ;  "  he  is  left 


32  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

alone  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  where  he  can  find  no  other 
father  than  the  All-good  God  !  " 

"  And  that  is  why  you  make  yourself  a  mother  to 
them  ?  "  I  replied  gently. 

"  What  I  do  is  little  enough,"  said  Mother  Denis, 
measuring  out  my  milk ;  "  but  every  day  I  get  some  of 
them  together  out  of  the  street,  that  for  once  they  may 
have  enough  to  eat.  Dear  children  !  their  mothers  will 
make  up  for  it  in  heaven.  Not  to  mention  that  they 
recall  my  native  mountains  to  me  ;  when  they  sing  and 
dance,  I  seem  to  see  our  old  father  again." 

Here  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  So  you  are  repaid  by  your  recollections  for  the 
good  you  do  them  ?  "  resumed  I. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  "  said  she,  "  and  by  their  happiness  too  ! 
The  laughter  of  these  little  ones,  sir,  is  like  a  bird's 
song ;  it  makes  you  gay,  and  gives  you  heart  to 
live." 

As  she  spoke  she  cut  some  fresh  slices  of  bread  and 
cheese,  and  added  some  apples  and  a  handful  of  nuts  to 
them. 

"  Come,  my  little  dears,'  she  cried,  "  put  these  into 
your  pockets  against  to-morrow." 

Then,  turning  to  me — 

"  To-day  I  am  ruining  myself,"  added  she  ;  "  but  we 
must  all  have  our  Carnival." 

I  came  away  without  saying  a  word :  I  was  too  much 
affected. 

At  last  I  have  discovered  what  true  pleasure  is. 
After  having  seen  the  egotism  of  sensuality  and  of   in- 


THE    CARNIVAL. 


33 


tellect,  I  have  found  the  happy  self-sacrifice  of  goodness. 
Pierre,  M.  Antoine,  and  Mother  Denis  had  each  kept 
their  Carnival ;  but  for  the  two  first  it  was  only  a  feast 
for  the  senses  or  the  mind,  while  for  the  third  it  was  a 
feast  for  the  heart. 


CHAPTER  III. 


WHAT  WE   MAY   LEARN 
BY   LOOKING   OUT   OF   WINDOW. 


March  3d. — A  poet  has  said  that  life  is  the  dream  of 
a  shadow  :  he  would  better  have  compared  it  to  a  night 
of  fever  !  What  alternate  fits  of  restlessness  and  sleep  ! 
what  discomfort !  what  sudden  starts  !  what  ever-return- 
ing thirst !  what  a  chaos  of  mournful  and  confused  fan- 
cies !  We  can  neither  sleep  nor  wake ;  we  seek  in  vain 
for  repose,  and  we  stop  short  on  the  brink  of  action. 
Two  thirds  of  human  existence  are  wasted  in  hesitation, 
and  the  last  third  in  repenting. 

When  I  say  human  existence,  I  mean  my  own  !  We 
are  so  made  that  each  of  us  regards  himself  as  the  mir- 
ror of  the  community  :  what  passes  in  our  minds  infalli- 
bly seems  to  us  a  history  of  the  universe.  Every  man  is 
like  the  drunkard,  who  reports  an  earthquake  because 
he  feels  himself  staggering. 

And  why  am  I  uncertain  and  restless — I,  a  poor  day- 


LOOKING   OUT  OF  WINDOW. 


35 


labourer  in  the  world — who  fill  an  obscure  station  in  a 
corner  of  it,  and  whose  work  it  avails  itself  of  with- 
out heeding  the  workman  ?  I  will  tell  you,  my  unseen 
friend,  for  whom  these  lines  are  written ;  my  unknown 
brother,  on  whom  the  solitary  call  in  sorrow  ;  my  im- 
aginary confidant,  to  whom  all  monologues  are  ad- 
dressed and  who  is  but  the  shadow  of  our  own  con- 
science. 

A  great  event  has  happened  in  my  life !  A  cross- 
road has  suddenly  opened  in  the  middle  of  the  monoto- 
nous way  along  which  I  was  travelling  quietly  and 
without  thinking  of  it.  Two  roads  present  themselves, 
and  I  must  choose  between  them.  One  is  only  the  con- 
tinuation of  that  I  have  followed  till  now ;  the  other  is 
wider,  and  exhibits  wondrous  prospects.  On  the  first 
there  is  nothing  to  fear,  but  also  little  to  hope ;  on  the 
other,  great  dangers  and  great  fortune.  In  a  word,  the 
question  is,  whether  I  shall  give  up  the  humble  office  in 
which  I  thought  to  die,  for  one  of  those  bold  specula- 
tions in  which  chance  alone  is  banker !  Ever  since  yes- 
terday I  have  consulted  with  myself ;  I  have  compared 
the  two,  and  I  remain  undecided. 

Where  shall  I  get  any  light — who  will  advise  me? 

Sunday,  4th. — See  the  sun  coming  out  from  the  thick 
fogs  of  winter;  spring  announces  its  approach;  a  soft 
breeze  skims  over  the  roofs,  and  my  wallflower  begins 
to  blow  again. 

We  are  near  that  sweet  season  of  fresh  green,  of 
which  the  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  sang  with  so 
much  feeling : 


36 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


Now  the  gladsome  month  of 

May 
All  things  newly  doth  array ; 
Fairest  lady,  let  me  too 
In  thy  love  my  life  renew. 

The  chirping-  of  the 
sparrows  calls  me  : 
they  claim  the  crumbs 
I  scatter  to  them  every 
morning.  I  open  my 
window,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  roofs  opens  out 
before  me  in  all  its 
splendor. 
He  who  has  only  lived  on  a  first  floor  has  no  idea  of 
the  picturesque  variety  of  such  a  view.  He  has  never 
contemplated  these  tile-coloured  heights  which  intersect 
each  other ;  he  has  not  followed  with  his  eyes  these  gut- 
ter-valleys, where  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  attic  gardens 
waves,  the  deep  shadows  which  evening  spreads  over 
the  slated  slopes,  and  the  sparkling  of  windows  which 
the  setting  sun  has  kindled  to  a  blaze  of  fire.  He  has 
not  studied  the  flora  of  these  Alps  of  civilization,  car- 
peted by  lichens  and  mosses ;  he  is  not  acquainted  with 
the  thousand  inhabitants  which  people  them,  from  the 
microscopic  insect  to  the  domestic  cat — that  Reynard 
of  the  roofs  who  is  always  on  the  prowl,  or  in  ambush  ; 
he  has  not  witnessed  the  thousand  aspects  of  a  clear  or 
a  cloudy  sky  ;  nor  the  thousand  effects  of  light,  which 
make  these  upper  regions  a  theatre  with  ever-changing 
scenes !     How    many    times    have    my  days  of    leisure 


LOOKING   OUT  OF  WINDOW.  ->y 

passed  away  in  contemplating  this  wonderful  sight;  in 
discovering  its  darker  or  brighter  episodes ;  in  seeking, 
in  short,  in  this  unknown  world  for  the  impressions  of 
travel  that  wealthy  tourists  look  for  lower  down  ! 

Nine  o'clock. — But  why,  then,  have  not  my  winged 
neighbours  picked  up  the  crumbs  1  have  scattered  for 
them  before  my  window  ?  I  see  them  fly  away,  come 
back,  perch  upon  the  ledges  of  the  windows,  and  chirp 
at  the  sight  of  the  feast  they  are  usually  so  ready  to  de- 
vour! It  is  not  my  presence  that  frightens  them;  I 
have  accustomed  them  to  eat  out  of  my  hand.  Then, 
why  is  this  fearful  suspense?  In  vain  I  look  arcund  : 
the  roof  is  clear,  the  windows  near  are  closed.  I 
crumble  the  bread  that  remains  from  my  breakfast  to 
attract  them  by  an  ampler  feast.  Their  chirpings  in- 
crease, they  bend  down  their  heads,  the  boldest  ap- 
proach upon  the  wing,  but  without  daring  to  alight. 

Come,  come,  my  sparrows  are  the  victims  of  one  of 
the  foolish  panics  which  make  the  funds  fall  at  the 
Bourse !  It  is  plain  that  birds  are  not  more  reasonable 
than  men  ! 

With  this  reflection  I  was  about  to  shut  my  window, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  I  perceived,  in  a  spot  of  sunshine 
on  my  right,  the  shadow  of  two  pricked-up  ears  ;  then 
a  paw  advanced,  then  the  head  of  a  tabby-cat  showed 
itself  at  the  corner  of  the  gutter.  The  cunning  fellow 
was  lying  there  in  wait,  hoping  the  crumbs  would  bring 
him  some  game. 

And  I  had  accused  my  guests  of  cowardice  !  I  was 
so  sure  that  no  danger  could  menace  them  !     I  thought 


38 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


I  had  looked  well  everywhere !     I  had  only  forgotten 
the  corner  behind  me  ! 

(  In  life,  as  on  the  roofs,  how  many  misfortunes  come 
from  having  forgotten  a  single  corner  !  ) 

Ten  d clock. — I  can  not  leave  my  window  ;  the  rain 
and  the  cold  have  kept  it  shut  so  long,  that  I  must  re- 
connoitre all  the  environs  to  be  able  to  take  possession 
of  them  again.  My  eyes  search  in  succession  all  the 
points  of  the  jumbled  and  confused  prospect,  passing 
on  or  stopping  according  to  what  they  light  upon. 

Ah !  see  the  windows  upon  which  they  formerly 
loved  to  rest ;  they  are  those  of  two  unknown  neigh- 
bours, whose  different  habits  they  have  long  remarked. 

One  is  a  poor  workwoman,  who  rises  before  sunrise, 
and  whose  profile  is  shadowed  upon  her  little  muslin 
window  curtain  far  into  the  evening ;  the  other  is  a 
young  lady  singer,  whose  vocal  flourishes  sometimes 
reach  my  attic  by  snatches.  When  their  windows  are 
open,  that  of  the  workwoman  discovers  a  humble  but 
decent  abode  ;  the  other,  an  elegantly  furnished  room. 
But  to-day  a  crowd  of  tradespeople  throng  the  latter : 
they  take  down  the  silk  hangings  and  carry  off  the 
furniture,  and  I  now  remember  that  the  young  singer 
passed  under  my  window  this  morning  with  her  veil 
down,  and  walking  with  the  hasty  step  of  one  who 
suffers  some  inward  trouble.  Ah !  I  guess  it  all.  Her 
means  are  exhausted  in  elegant  fancies,  or  have  been 
taken  away  by  some  unexpected  misfortune,  and  now  she 
has  fallen  from  luxury  to  indigence.  While  the  work- 
woman manages  not  only  to  keep  her  little  room,  but 


LOOKING   OUT  OF  WINDOW.  30 

also  to  furnish  it  with  decent  comfort  by  her  steady 
toil,  that  of  the  singer  is  become  the  property  of  brok- 
ers. The  one  sparkled  for  a  moment  on  the  wave  of 
prosperity  ;  the  other  sails  slowly  but  safely  along  the 
coast  of  a  humble  and  labourious  industry. 

Alas !  is  there  not  here  a  lesson  for  us  all  ?  Is  it 
really  in  hazardous  experiments,  at  the  end  of  which  we 
shall  meet  with  wealth  or  ruin,  that  the  wise  man 
should  employ  his  years  of  strength  and  freedom  ? 
Ought  he  to  consider  life  as  a  regular  employment 
which  brings  its  daily  wages,  or  as  a  game  in  which  the 
future  is  determined  by  a  few  throws  ?  Why  seek  the 
risk  of  extreme  chances  ?  For  what  end  hasten  to  riches 
by  dangerous  roads  ?  Is  it  really  certain  that  happiness 
is  the  prize  of  brilliant  successes,  rather  than  of  a  wisely 
accepted  poverty?  Ah!  if  men  but  knew  in  what  a 
small  dwelling  joy  can  live,  and  how  little  it  costs  to 
furnish  it ! 

Twelve  o'clock. — I  have  been  walking  up  and  down 
my  attic  for  a  long  time,  with  my  arms  folded  and  my 
eyes  on  the  ground  !  My  doubts  increase,  like  shadows 
encroaching  more  and  more  on  some  bright  space  ;  my 
fears  multiply,  and  the  uncertainty  becomes  every  mo- 
ment more  painful  to  me  !  It  is  necessary  for  me  to  de- 
cide to-dav,  and  before  the  evening !  (  I  hold  the  dice 
of  my  future  fate  in  my  hands,  and  I  dare  not  throw 
them.) 

Three  d  clock. — The  sky  has  become  cloudy,  and  a 
cold  wind  begins  to  blow  from  the  west ;  all  the  win- 
dows which  were  opened  to  the  sunshine  of  a  beautiful 


40 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


day  are  shut  again.  Only  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  the  lodger  on  the  last  story  has  not  yet  left  his 
balcony. 

One  knows  him  to  be  a  soldier  by  his  regular  walk, 
his  grey  moustaches,  and  the  ribbon  which  decorates  his 
buttonhole.  Indeed,  one  might  have  guessed  as  much 
from  the  care  he  takes  of  the  little  garden  which  is  the 
ornament  of  his  balcony  in  mid-air ;  for  there  are  two 
things  especially  loved  by  all  old  soldiers — flowers  and 
children.  They  have  been  so  long  obliged  to  look  upon 
the  earth  as  a  field  of  battle,  and  so  long  cut  off  from 
the  peaceful  pleasures  of  a  quiet  lot,  that  they  seem  to 
begin  life  at  an  age  when  others  end  it.  The  tastes  of 
their  early  years,  which  were  arrested  by  the5  stern  du- 
ties of  war,  suddenly  break  out  again  with  their  white 
hairs,  and  are  like  the  savings  of  youth  which  they 
spend  again  in  old  age.  Besides,  they  have  been  con- 
demned to  be  destroyers  for  so  long,  that  perhaps  they 
feel  a  secret  pleasure  in  creating  and  seeing -life  spring 
up  again :  the  beauty  of  weakness  has  a  grace  and  an 
attraction  the  more  for  those  who  have  been  the  agents 
of  unbending  force  ;  and  the  watching  over  the  frail 
germs  of  life  has  all  the  charms  of  novelty  for  these  old 
workmen  of  death. 

Therefore  the  cold  wind  has  not  driven  my  neigh- 
bour from  his  balcony.  He  is  digging  up  the  earth  in 
his  green  boxes,  and  carefully  sowing  in  the  seeds  of 
the  scarlet  nasturtium,  convolvulus,  and  sweet  pea. 
Henceforth  he  will  come  every  day  to  watch  for  their 
first  sprouting,  to  protect  the  young  shoots  from  weeds 


LOOKING   OUT  OF  WINDOW. 


41 


or  insects,  to  arrange  the  strings  for  the  tendrils  to  climb 
by,  and  carefully  to  regulate  their  supply  of  water  and 
heat ! 

How  much  labour  to  bring  in  the  desired  harvest ! 
For  that,  how  many  times  shall  I  see  him  brave  cold  or 
heat,  wind  or  sun,  as  he  does  to-day  !  But  then,  in  the 
hot  summer  days,  when  the  blinding  dust  whirls  in 
clouds  through  our  streets,  when  the  eye,  dazzled  by 
the  glare  of  white  stucco,  knows  not  where  to  rest,  and 
the  glowing  roofs  reflect  their  heat  upon  us  to  burning, 
the  old  soldier  will  sit  in  his  arbour  and  perceive  noth- 
ing but  green  leaves  and  flowers  around  him,  and  the 
breeze  will  come  cool  and  fresh  to  him  through  these 
perfumed  shades.  His  assiduous  care  will  be  rewarded 
at  last. 

(We  must  sow  the  seeds,  and  tend  the  growth,  if  we 
would  enjoy  the  flower. 

Four  d clock. — The  clouds  which  have  been  gathering 
in  the  horizon  for  a  long  time  are  become  darker ;  it 
thunders  loudly,  and  the  rain  pours  down  !  Those  who 
are  caught  in  it  fly  in  every  direction,  some  laughing 
and  some  crying. 

I  always  find  particular  amusement  in  these  helter- 
skelters,  caused  by  a  sudden  storm.  It  seems  as  if  each 
one,  when  thus  taken  by  surprise,  loses  the  factitious 
character  the  world  or  habit  has  given  him,  and  ap- 
pears in  his  true  colours. 

See,  for  example,  that  big  man  with  deliberate  step, 
who  suddenly  forgets  his  indifference  made  to  order, 
and  runs  like  a  school-boy  !     He  is  a  thrifty  city  gentle- 

STATE  r» u a *.!.'. L.!  'ml'ol, 


42 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


man,  who,  with  all  his  fashionable  airs,  is  afraid  to  spoil 
his  hat. 

That  pretty  lady  yonder,  on  the  contrary,  whose 
looks  are  so  modest,  and  whose  dress  is  so  elaborate, 
slackens  her  pace  with  the  increasing  storm.  She  seems 
to  find  pleasure  in  braving  it,  and  does  not  think  of  her 
velvet  cloak  spotted  by  the  hail !  She  is  evidently  a 
lioness  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Here,  a  young  man  who  was  passing  stops  to  catch 
some  of  the  hailstones  in  his  hand,  and  examines  them. 
By  his  quick  and  business-like  walk  just  now,  you  would 
have  taken  him  for  a  tax-gatherer  on  his  rounds,  when 
he  is  a  young  philosopher,  studying  the  effects  of  elec- 
tricity. And  those  school-boys  who  leave  their  ranks 
to  run  after  the  sudden  gusts  of  a  March  whirlwind  ; 
those  girls,  just  now  so  demure,  and  who  now  fly  with 
bursts  of  laughter ;  those  national  guards,  who  quit  the 
martial  attitude  of  their  days  of  duty,  to  take  refuge 
under  a  porch  !  The  storm  has  caused  all  these  trans- 
formations. 

See,  it  increases  !  The  hardiest  are  obliged  to  seek 
shelter.  I  see  every  one  rushing  towards  the  shop  in 
front  of  my  window,  which  a  bill  announces  is  to  let.  It 
is  for  the  fourth  time  within  a  few  months.  A  year  ago 
all  the  skill  of  the  joiner  and  the  art  of  the  painter  were 
employed  in  beautifying  it,  but  their  works  are  already 
destroyed  by  the  leaving  of  so  many  tenants  ;  the  cor- 
nices of  the  front  are  disfigured  by  mud  ;  the  arabesques 
on  the  doorway  are  spoiled  by  bills  posted  upon  them 
to  announce  the  sale  of  the  effects.     The  splendid  shop 


LOOKING   OUT  OF  WINDOW.  *■> 

has  lost  some  of  its  embellishments  with  each  change  of 
the  tenant.  See  it  now  empty,  and  left  open  to  the 
passers-by.  How  much  does  its  fate  resemble  that  of  so 
many  who,  like  it,  only  change  their  occupation  to 
hasten  the  faster  to  ruin  ! 

I  am  struck  by  this  last  reflection  :  since  the  morn- 
ing everything  seems  to  speak  to  me,  and  with  the  same 
warning  tone.  Everything  says :  "  Take  care  !  be  con- 
tent with  your  happy,  though  humble,  lot;  happiness 
can  only  be  retained  by  constancy  ;  do  not  forsake  your 
old  patrons  for  the  protection  of  those  who  are  un- 
known !  " 

Are  they  the  outward  objects  which  speak  thus,  or 
does  the  warning  come  from  within  ?  Is  it  not  I  my- 
self who  give  this  language  to  all  that  surrounds  me? 
The  world  is  but  an  instrument,  to  which  we  give 
sound  at  will.  But  what  does  it  signify  if  it  teaches 
us  wisdom  ?  The  low  voice  which  speaks  in  our  breasts 
is  always  a  friendly  voice,  for  it  tells  us  what  we  are — 
that  is  to  say,  what  is  our  capability.  Bad  conduct 
results,  for  the  most  part,  from  mistaking  our  calling. 
There  are  so  many  fools  and  knaves,  because  there  are 
so  few  men  who  know  themselves.  ("The  question  is 
not  to  discover  what  will  suit  us,  but  for  what  we  are 
suited  !") 

What  should  I  do  in  the  midst  of  these  experienced 
financial  speculators  ?  I  am  a  poor  sparrow,  born 
among  the  housetops,  and  should  always  fear  the  enemy 
crouching  in  the  dark  corner  ;  I  am  a  prudent  work- 
man, and  should  think  of  the  business  of  my  neighbours 


44 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


who  so  suddenly  disappeared ;  I  am  a  timid  observer, 
and  should  call  to  mind  the  flowers  so  slowly  raised  by 
the  old  soldier,  or  the  shop  brought  to  ruin  by  con- 
stant change  of  masters.  Away  from  me,  ye  banquets, 
over  which  hangs  the  sword  of  Damocles !  I  am  a 
country  mouse.  Give  me  my  nuts  and  hollow  tree, 
and  I  ask  nothing  besides — except  security. 

And  why  this  insatiable  craving  for  riches  ?  Does  a 
man  drink  more  when  he  drinks  from  a  large  glass  ? 
From  whence  comes  that  universal  dread  of  mediocrity, 
the  fruitful  mother  of  peace  and  liberty  ?  Ah  !  there 
is  the  evil  which,  above  every  other,  it  should  be  the 
aim  of  both  public  and  private  education  to  antici- 
pate !  If  that  were  got  rid  of,  what  treasons  would  be 
spared,  what  baseness  avoided,  what  a  chain  of  excess 
and  crime  would  be  forever  broken !  (We  award  the 
palm  to  charity,  and  to  self-sacrifice  ;  but,  above  all,  let 
us  award  it  to  moderation,  for  it  is  the  great  social  vir- 
tue. )  Even  when  it  does  not  create  the  others,  it  stands 
instead  of  them. 

Six  o'clock. — I  have  written  a  letter  of  thanks  to  the 
promoters  of  the  new  speculation,  and  have  declined 
their  offer !  This  decision  has  restored  my  peace  of 
mind.  I  stopped  singing,  like  the  cobbler,  as  long  as 
I  entertained  the  hope  of  riches  :  it  is  gone,  and  hap- 
piness is  come  back. 

(O  beloved  and  gentle  Poverty  !  pardon  me  for  having 
for  a  moment  wished  to  fly  from  thee,  as  I  would  from 
Want.  Stay  here  forever  with  thy  charming  sisters,  Pity, 
Patience,  Sobriety,  and  Solitude  ;  be  ye  my  queens  and 


LOOKING   OUT  OF  WINDOW. 


45 


my  instructors  ;  teach  me  the  stern  duties  of  life ;  re- 
move far  from  my  abode  the  weakness  of  heart,  and 
giddiness  of  head,  which  follow  prosperity.  Holy 
Poverty !  teach  me  to  endure  without  complaining,  to 
impart  without  grudging,  to  seek  the  end  of  life  higher 
than  in  pleasure,  farther  off  than  in  power.  Thou 
givest  the  body  strength,  thou  makest  the  mind  more 
firm  ;  and,  thanks  to  thee,  this  life,  to  which  the  rich 
attach  themselves  as  to  a  rock,  becomes  a  bark  of  which 
death  may  cut  the  cable  without  awakening  all  our 
fears.  Continue  to  sustain  me,  O  thou  whom  Christ 
hath  called  Blessed !  ) 


4   4  * 


;  l 


U  [f  . 


CHAPTER   IV. 

LET   US   LOVE   ONE   ANOTHER. 

April  gth. — The  fine  evenings  are 
come  back ;  the  trees  begin  to  put  forth 
their  shoots;  hyacinths,  jonquils,  violets,  and  lilacs  per- 
fume the  baskets  of  the  flower-girls  ;  all  the  world  have 
begun  their  walks  again  on  the  quays  and  boulevards. 
After  dinner,  I,  too,  descend  from  my  attic  to  breathe 
the  evening  air. 

It  is  the  hour  when  Paris  is  seen  in  all  its  beauty. 
During  the  day  the  plaster  fronts  of  the  houses  weary 
the  eye  by  their  monotonous  whiteness ;  heavily  laden 
carts  make  the  street  shake  under  their  huge  wheels ; 
the  eager  crowd,  taken  up  by  the  one  fear  of  losing  a 
moment  from  business,  cross  and  jostle  one  another ; 
the  aspect  of  the  city  altogether  has  something  harsh, 
restless,  and  flurried  about  it.  But,  as  soon  as  the  stars 
appear,  everything  is  changed  ;  the  glare  of  the  white 
houses  is  quenched  in  the  gathering  shades  ;  you  hear 
no  more  any  rolling  but  that  of  the  carriages  on  their 
way    to    some    party    of    pleasure ;    you    see    only    the 


LET  US  LOVE   ONE  ANOTHER. 


47 


lounger  or  the  light-hearted  passing  by ;  work  has 
given  place  to  leisure.  Now  each  one  may  breathe 
after  the  fierce  race  through  the  business  of  the  day,  and 
whatever  strength  remains  to  him  he  gives  to  pleasure ! 
See  the  ball-rooms  lighted  up,  the  theatres  open,  the 
eating-shops,  along  the  walks  set  out  with  dainties,  and 
the  twinkling  lanterns  of  the  newspaper  criers.  De- 
cidedly Paris  has  laid  aside  the  pen,  the  ruler,  and  the 
apron  ;  after  the  day  spent  in  work,  it  must  have  the 
evening  for  enjoyment ;  like  the  masters  of  Thebes,  it 
has  put  off  all  serious  matter  till  to-morrow. 

I  love  to  take  part  in  this  happy  hour ;  not  to  mix  in 
the  general  gaiety,  but  to  contemplate  it.  If  the  enjoy- 
ments of  others  embitter  jealous  minds,  they  strengthen 
the  humble  spirit ;  they  are  the  beams  of  sunshine,  which 
open  the  two  beautiful  flowers  called  trust  and  hope. 

Although  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  smiling  multi- 
tude, I  do  not  feel  myself  isolated  from  it,  for  its  gai- 
ety is  reflected  upon  me  :  it  is  my  own  kind,  my  own 
family,  who  are  enjoying  life,  and  I  take  a  brother's 
share  in  their  happiness.  We  are  all  fellow-soldiers  in 
this  earthly  battle,  and  what  does  it  matter  on  whom  the 
honours  of  the  victory  fall  ?  If  Fortune  passes  by  with- 
out seeing  us,  and  pours  her  favours  on  others,  let  us 
console  ourselves,  like  the  friend  of  Parmenio,  by  say- 
ing, "  Those,  too,  are  Alexanders." 

While  making  these  reflections,  I  was  going  on  as 
chance  took  me.  I  crossed  from  one  pavement  to  an- 
other, I  retraced  my  steps,  I  stopped  before  the  shops 
or  to  read  the  handbills.     How  many  things  there  are 


48  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

to  learn  in  the  streets  of  Paris !  What  a  museum  it  is  ! 
Unknown  fruits,  foreign  arms,  furniture  of  old  times  or 
other  lands,  animals  of  all  climates,  statues  of  great 
men,  costumes  of  distant  nations  !  It  is  the  world  seen 
in  samples !, 

Let  us  then  look  at  this  people,  whose  knowledge  is 
gained  from  the  shop  windows  and  the  tradesman's  dis- 
play of  goods.  Nothing  has  been  taught  them,  but  they 
have  a  rude  notion  of  everything.  They  have  seen  the 
ananas  at  Chevet's,  a  palm-tree  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
sugar-canes  selling  on  the  Pont-Neuf.  The  Redskins, 
exhibited  in  the  Valentine  Hall,  have  taught  them  to 
mimic  the  dance  of  the  bison,  and  to  smoke  the  calumet 
of  Peace  ;  they  have  seen  Carter's  lions  fed  ;  they  know 
the  principal  national  costumes  contained  in  Babin's 
collection ;  Goupil's  display  of  prints  has  placed  the 
tiger-hunts  of  Africa  and  the  sittings  of  the  English  Par- 
liament before  their  eyes  ;  they  have  become  acquainted 
with  Queen  Victoria,  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  and  Kos- 
suth, at  the  office-door  of  the  "  Illustrated  News."  We 
can  certainly  instruct  them,  but  not  astonish  them  ;  for 
nothing  is  completely  new  to  them.  You  may  take  the 
Paris  ragamuffin  through  the  five  quarters  of  the  world, 
and  at  every  wonder  with  which  you  think  to  surprise 
him,  he  will  settle  the  matter  with  that  favourite  and  con- 
clusive answer  of  his  class — I  know. 

But  this  variety  of  exhibitions,  which  makes  Paris 
the  fair  of  the  world,  does  not  merely  offer  a  means  of 
instruction  to  him  who  walks  through  it ;  it  is  a  con- 
tinual spur  for  rousing  the  imagination,  a  first  step  of 


LET  US  LOVE    ONE  ANOTHER.  49 

the  ladder  always  set  up  before  us  in  a  vision.  When 
we  see  them,  how  many  voyages  do  we  take  in  imagina- 
tion, what  adventures  do  we  dream  of,  what  pictures 
do  we  sketch  !  I  never  look  at  that  shop  near  the  Chi- 
nese baths,  with  its  tapestry  hangings  of  Florida  jessa- 
mine, and  filled  with  magnolias,  without  seeing  the 
forest  glades  of  the  New  World,  described  by  the 
author  of  "Atala,"  opening  themselves  out  befor.r^-ne. 

Then,  when  this  study  of  things  and  this  discourse 
of  reason  begin  to  tire  you,  look  around  you  !  What 
contrasts  of  figures  and  faces  you  see  in  the  crowd ! 
What  a  vast  field  for  the  exercise  of  meditation !  A 
half-seen  glance,  or  a  few  words  caught  as  the  speaker 
passes  by,  open  a  thousand  vistas  to  your  imagination. 
You  wish  to  comprehend  what  these  imperfect  disclos- 
ures mean,  and,  as  the  antiquary  endeavours  to  de- 
cipher the  mutilated  inscription  on  some  old  monument, 
you  build  up  a  history  on  a  gesture  or  on  a  word  ! 
These  are  the  stirring  sports  of  the  mind,  which  finds 
in  fiction  a  relief  from  the  wearisome  dulness  of  the 
actual. 

Alas !  as  I  was  just  now  passing  by  the  carriage  en- 
trance of  a  great  house,  I  noticed  a  sad  subject  for  one 
of  these  histories.  A  man  was  sitting  in  the  darkest  cor- 
ner with  his  head  bare,  and  holding  out  his  hat  for  the 
charity  of  those  who  passed.  His  threadbare  coat  had 
that  look  of  neatness  which  marks  that  destitution  has 
been  met  by  a  long  struggle.  He  had  carefully  but- 
toned it  up  to  hide  the  want  of  a  shirt.  His  face  was 
half  hid  under  his  long  grey  hair,  and  his  eyes  closed, 


5° 


AN  A  TTIC  rillLOSOniER   IN  PARIS. 


as  if  he  wished  to  escape  the  sight  of  his  own  humili- 
ation, and  he  remained    mute  and    motionless.     Those 

who  passed  him  took 
no  notice  of  the  beggar, 
who  sat  in  silence  and 
darkness !  They  had 
been  so  lucky  as  to 
escape  complaints  and 
importunities,  and  were 
glad  to  turn  away  their 
eyes  too. 

All  at  once  the 
great  gate  turned  on 
its  hinges  ;  and  a  very 
low  carriage,  lighted 
with  silver  lamps,  and  drawn  by  two  black  horses, 
came  slowly  out,  and  took  the  road  toward  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain.  I  could  just  distinguish,  within, 
the  sparkling  diamonds  and  the  flowers  of  a  ball-dress; 
the  glare  of  the  lamps  passed  like  a  bloody  streak  over 
the  pale  face  of  the  beggar,  and  showed  his  look  as  his 
eyes  opened  and  followed  the  rich  man's  equipage  until 
it  disappeared  in  the  night. 

I  dropped  a  small  piece  of  money  into  the    hat  he 
was  holding  out,  and  passed  on  quickly. 

I  had  just  fallen  unexpectedly  upon  the  two  saddest 

secrets  of  the  disease  which  troubles  the  age  we  live 

in  :  the  envious  hatred  of   him  who  suffers    want,    and 

the  selfish  forgetfulness  of  him  who  lives  in  affluence. 

All  the  enjoyment  of  my  walk  was  gone ;  I  left  off 


LET   US  LOVE    ONE  ANOTHER. 


51 


looking  about  me,  and  retired  into  my  own  heart.  The 
animated  and  moving  sight  in  the  streets  gave  place  to 
inward  meditation  upon  all  the  painful  problems  which 
have  been  written  for  the  last  four  thousand  years  at  the 
bottom  of  each  human  struggle,  but  which  are  pro- 
pounded more  clearly  than  ever  in  our  days. 

I  pondered  on  the  uselessness  of  so  many  contests, 
in  which  defeat  and  victory  only  displace  each  other  by 
turns,  and  on  the  mistaken  zealots  who  have  repeated 
from  generation  to  generation  the  bloody  history  of 
Cain  and  Abel ;  and,  saddened  with  these  mournful 
reflections,  I  walked  on  as  chance  took  me,  until  the 
silence  all  around  insensibly  drew  me  out  from  my  own 
thoughts. 

I  had  reached  one  of  the  remote  streets,  in  which 
those  who  would  live  in  comfort  and  without  ostenta- 
tion, and  who  love  serious  reflection,  delight  to  find  a 
home.  There  were  no  shops  along  the  dimly  lit  pave- 
ment ;  one  heard  no  sounds  but  of  the  distant  carriages, 
and  of  the  steps  of  some  of  the  inhabitants  returning 
quietly  home. 

I  instantly  recognized  the  street,  though  I  had  only 
been  there  once  before. 

That  was  two  years  ago.  I  was  walking  at  the  time 
by  the  side  of  the  Seine,  to  which  the  lights  on  the 
quays  and  bridges  gave  the  aspect  of  a  lake  surrounded 
by  a  garland  of  stars ;  and  I  had  reached  the  Louvre, 
when  I  was  stopped  by  a  crowd  collected  near  the  para- 
pet:  they  had  gathered  round  a  child  of  about  six,  who 
was  crying,  and  I  asked  the  cause  of  his  tears. 


52 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


"  It  seems  that  he  was  sent  to  walk  in  the  Tuile- 
ries,"  said  a  mason,  who  was  returning  from  his  work 
with  his  trowel  in  his  hand  ;  "  the  servant  who  took 
care  of  him  met  with  some  friends  there,  and  told  the 
child  to  wait  for  him  while  he  went  to  get  a  drink ;  but 
I  suppose  the  drink  made  him  more  thirsty,  for  he 
has  not  come  back,  and  the  child  can  not  find  his  way 
home." 

"  Why  do  they  not  ask  him  his  name,  and  where  he 
lives? " 

"  They  have  been  doing  it  for  the  last  hour  ;  but  all 
he  can  say  is,  that  he  is  called  Charles,  and  that  his 
father  is  M.  Duval — there  are  twelve  hundred  Duvals 
in  Paris." 

"  Then  he  does  not  know  in  what  part  of  the  town  he 
lives? " 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed  !  Don't  you  see  that  he 
is  a  gentleman's  child  ?  He  has  never  gone  out  except 
in  a  carriage  or  with  a  servant ;  he  does  not  know  what 
to  do  by  himself." 

Here  the  mason  was  interrupted  by  some  of  the 
voices  rising  above  the  others. 

"  We  can  not  leave  him  in  the  street,"  said  some. 

"  The  child-stealers  would  carry  him  off,"  continued 
others. 

"  We  must  take  him  to  the  overseer." 

"  Qr  to  the  police-office."  * 

"  That's  the  thing.     Come,  little  one  !  " 

But  the  child,  frightened  by  these  suggestions  of 
danger,  and  at  the  names  of  police  and  overseer,  cried 


LET  US  LOVE   ONE  ANOTHER.  53 

louder,  and  drew  back  toward  the  parapet.  In  vain 
they  tried  to  persuade  him  ;  his  fears  made  him  resist 
the  more,  and  the  most  eager  began  to  get  weary, 
when  the  voice  of  a  little  boy  was  heard  through  the 
confusion. 

"  I  know  him  well — I  do,"  said  he,  looking  at  the  lost 
child ;  "  he  belongs  to  our  part  of  the  town." 

"What  part  is  it?" 

"  Yonder,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Boulevards — Rue 
des  Magasins." 

"  And  you  have  seen  him  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  he  belongs  to  the  great  house  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  where  there  is  an  iron  gate  with  gilt 
points." 

The  child  quickly  raised  his  head,  and  stopped  cry- 
ing. The  little  boy  answered  all  the  questions  that 
were  put  to  him,  and  gave  such  details  as  left  no  room 
for  doubt.  The  other  child  understood  him,  for  he 
went  up  to  him  as  if  to  put  himself  under  his  protec- 
tion. 

"Then  you  can  take  him  to  his  parents?"  asked  the 
mason,  who  had  listened  with  real  interest  to  the  little 
boy's  account. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  replied  he;  "its  the  way  I'm 
going." 

"  Then  you  will  take  charge  of  him  ? " 

"  He  has*  only  to  come  with  me." 

And,  taking  up  the  basket  he  had  put  down  on 
the  pavement,  he  set  off  toward  the  postern  gate  of  the 
Louvre. 


54  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

The  lost  child  followed  him. 

"  I  hope  he  will  take  him  right,"  said  I,  when  I  saw 
them  go  away. 

"  Never  fear,"  replied  the  mason  ;  "  the  little  one  in 
the  blouse  is  the  same  age  as  the  other ;  but,  as  the  say- 
ing is,  '  he  knows  black  from  white ';  poverty,  you  see, 
is  a  famous  school-mistress  !  " 

The  crowd  dispersed.  For  my  part,  I  went  toward 
the  Louvre :  the  thought  came  into  my  head  to  follow 
the  two  children,  so  as  to  guard  against  any  mistake. 

I  was  not  long  in  overtaking  them  ;  they  were  walk- 
ing side  by  side,  talking,  and  already  quite  familiar  with 
one  another.  The  contrast  in  their  dress  then  struck 
me.  Little  Duval  wore  one  of  those  fanciful  children's 
dresses  which  are  expensive  as  well  as  in  good  taste  ; 
his  coat  was  skillfully  fitted  to  his  figure,  his  trousers 
came  down  in  plaits  from  his  waist  to  his  boots  of  pol- 
ished leather  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons,  and  his  ring- 
lets were  half  hid  by  a  velvet  cap.  The  appearance  of 
his  guide,  on  the  contrary,  was  that  of  the  class  who 
dwell  on  the  extreme  borders  of  poverty,  but  who  there 
maintain  their  ground  with  no  surrender.  His  old 
blouse,  patched  with  pieces  of  different  shades,  indicated 
the  perseverance  of  an  industrious  mother  struggling 
against  the  wear  and  tear  of  time ;  his  trousers  were  be- 
come too  short,  and  showed  his  stockings  darned  over 
and  over  again ;  and  it  was  evident  that  his  shoes  were 
not  made  for  him. 

The  countenances  of  the  two  children  were  not  less 
different  than  their  dresses.     That  of  the  first  was  deli- 


The  contrast  in  their  dress  struck  me. 


LET  US  LOVE    ONE  ANOTHER.  55 

cate  and  refined  ;  his  clear  blue  eye,  his  fair  skin,  and 
his  smiling  mouth,  gave  him  a  charming  look  of  inno- 
cence and  happiness.  The  features  of  the  other,  on  the 
contrary,  had  something  rough  in  them  ;  his  eye  was 
quick  and  lively,  his  complexion  dark,  his  smile  less 
merry  than  shrewd ;  all  showed  a  mind  sharpened  by 
too  early  experience ;  he  boldly  walked  through  the 
middle  of  the  streets  thronged  by  carriages,  and  fol- 
lowed their  countless  turnings  without  hesitation. 

I  found,  on  asking  him,  that  every  day  he  carried 
dinner  to  his  father,  who  was  then  working  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine ;  and  this  responsible  duty  had  made 
him  careful  and  prudent.  He  had  learned  those  hard 
but  forcible  lessons  of  necessity  which  nothing  can 
equal  or  supply  the  place  of.  Unfortunately  the  wants 
of  his  poor  family  had  kept  him  from  school,  and  he 
seemed  to  feel  the  loss ;  for  he  often  stopped  before  the 
print-shops  and  asked  his  companion  to  read  him  the 
names  of  the  engravings.  In  this  way  we  reached  the 
Boulevard  Bonne  Nouvelle,  which  the  little  wanderer 
seemed  to  know  again:  notwithstanding  his  fatigue,  he 
hurried  on ;  he  was  agitated  by  mixed  feelings ;  at  the 
sight  of  his  house  he  uttered  a  cry,  and  ran  toward  the 
iron  gate  with  the  gilt  points  ;  a  lady  who  was  standing 
at  the  entrance  received  him  in  her  arms,  and  from  the 
exclamations  of  joy,  and  the  sound  of  kisses,  I  soon  per- 
ceived she  was  his  mother. 

Not  seeing  either  the  servant  or  child  return,  she 
had  sent  in  search  of  them  in  every  direction,  and  was 
waiting  for  them  in  intense  anxiety. 


56  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

I  explained  to  her  in  a  few  words  what  had  hap- 
pened. She  thanked  me  warmly,  and  looked  round  for 
the  little  boy  who  had  recognised  and  brought  back 
her  son  ;  but  while  we  were  talking  he  had  disappeared. 

It  was  for  the  first  time  since  then  that  I  had  come 
into  this  part  of  Paris.  Did  the  mother  continue  grate- 
ful? Had  the  children  met  again,  and  had  the  happy 
chance  of  their  first  meeting  lowered  between  them  that 
barrier  which  may  mark  the  different  ranks  of  men,  but 
should  not  divide  them? 

While  putting  these  questions  to  myself,  I  slackened 
my  pace,  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  great  gate,  which  I 
just  perceived.  All  at  once  I  saw  it  open,  and  two  chil- 
dren appeared  at  the  entrance.  Although  much  grown, 
I  recognised  them  at  first  sight ;  they  were  the  child 
who  was  found  near  the  parapet  of  the  Louvre,  and  his 
young  guide.  But  the  dress  of  the  latter  was  greatly 
changed  :  his  blouse  of  grey  cloth  was  neat,  and  even 
spruce,  and  was  fastened  round  the  waist  by  a  polished 
leather  belt ;  he  wore  strong  shoes,  but  made  to  his  feet, 
and  had  on  a  new  cloth  cap. 

Just  at  the  moment  I  saw  him  he  held  in  his  two 
hands  an  enormous  bunch  of  lilacs,  to  which  his  com- 
panion was  trying  to  add  narcissuses  and  primroses ; 
the  two  children  laughed,  and  parted  with  a  friendly 
good-bye.  M.  Duval's  son  did  not  go  in  till  he  had  seen 
the  other  turn  the  corner  of  the  street. 

Then  I  accosted  the  latter,  and  reminded  him  of  our 
former  meeting  ;  he  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  and 
then  seemed  to  recollect  me. 


LET   US  LOVE   ONE  ANOTHER.  57 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  do  not  make  you  a  bow,"  said  he 
merrily,  "  but  I  want  both  my  hands  for  the  nosegay  M. 
Charles  has  given  me." 

"  You  are,  then,  become  great  friends?  "  said  I. 

"  Oh  !  I  should  think  so,"  said  the  child  ;  "and  now 
my  father  is  rich  too  !  " 

"  How's  that !  " 

"  M.  Duval  lent  him  a  little  money ;  he  has  taken  a 
shop,  where  he  works  on  his  own  account;  and,  as  for 
me,  I  go  to  school." 

"  Yes,"  replied  I,  remarking  for  the  first  time  the 
cross  which  decorated  his  little  coat ;  "  and  I  see  that 
you  are  a  head-boy  !  " 

"  M.  Charles  helps  me  to  learn,  and  so  I  am  come  to 
be  the  first  in  the  class." 

"  Are  you  now  going  to  your  lessons?" 

"  Yes,  and  he  has  given  me  some  lilacs  ;  for  he  has  a 
garden  where  we  play  together,  and  where  my  mother 
can  always  have  flowers." 

"  Then  it  is  the  same  as  if  it  were  partly  your  own." 

"  So  it  is  !  Ah  !  they  are  good  neighbours  indeed  ! 
But  here  I  am  ;  good-bye,  sir." 

He  nodded  to  me  with  a  smile,  and  disappeared. 

I  went  on  with  my  walk,  still  pensive,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  relief.  If  I  had  elsewhere  witnessed  the  pain- 
ful contrast  between  affluence  and  want,  here  I  had 
found  the  true  union  of  riches  and  poverty.  Hearty 
good-will  had  smoothed  down  the  more  rugged  in- 
equalities on  both  sides,  and  had  opened  a  road  of  true 
neighbourhood    and    fellowship    between    the    humble 


58 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


workshop  and  the  stately  mansion.  Instead  of  heark- 
ening to  the  voice  of  interest,  they  had  both  listened  to 
that  of  self-sacrifice,  and  there  was  no  place  left  for  con- 
tempt or  envy.  Thus,  instead  of  the  beggar  in  rags, 
that  I  had  seen  at  the  other  door  cursing  the  rich  man, 
I  had  found  here  the  happy  child  of  the  labourer  loaded 
with  flowers  and  blessing  him  !  The  problem,  so  diffi- 
cult and  so  dangerous  to  examine  into,  with  no  regard 
but  for  the  rights  of  it,  I  had  just  seen  solved  by  love. 


•SwWik*  ■  r 


CHAPTER  V. 


COMPENSATION. 


Sunday,  May  2jtJi.  —  Capital  cities 
have  one  thing  peculiar  to  them  :  their 
days  of  rest  seem  to  be  the  signal  for 
a  general  dispersion  and  flight.  Like  birds  that  are 
just  restored  to  liberty,  the  people  come  out  of  their 
stone  cages,  and  joyfully  fly  toward  the  country.  It  is 
who  shall  find  a  green  hillock  for  a  seat,  or  the  shade 
of  a  wood  for  a  shelter ;  they  gather  May-flowers,  they 
run  about  the  fields  ;  the  town  is  forgotten  until  the 
evening,  when  they  return  with  sprigs  of  blooming 
hawthorn  in  their  hats,  and  their  hearts  gladdened  by 
pleasant  thoughts  and  recollections  of  the  past  day  ; 
the  next  day  they  return  again  to  their  harness,  and  to 
work. 

These  rural  adventurers  are  most  remarkable  at 
Paris.  When  the  fine  weather  comes,  clerks,  shop- 
keepers, and  workingmen  look  forward  impatiently  for 


6o  AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

the  Sunday  as  the  day  for  trying  a  few  hours  of  this  pas- 
toral life  ;  they  walk  through  six  miles  of  grocers'  shops 
and  public  houses  in  the  faubourgs,  in  the  sole  hope  of 
finding  a  real  turnip-field.  The  father  of  a  family  be- 
gins the  practical  education  of  his  son  by  showing  him 
wheat  which  has  not  taken  the  form  of  a  loaf,  and  cabbage 
"  in  its  wild  state."  Heaven  only  knows  the  encounters, 
the  discoveries,  the  adventures  that  are  met  with ! 
What  Parisian  has  not  had  his  Odyssey  in  an  excursion 
through  the  suburbs,  and  would  not  be  able  to  write  a 
companion  to  the  famous  "  Travels  by  Land  and  by 
Sea  from  Paris  to  St.  Cloud  "  ? 

We  do  not  now  speak  of  that  floating  population 
from  all  parts,  for  whom  our  French  Babylon  is  the 
caravansary  of  Europe  :  a  phalanx  of  thinkers,  artists, 
men  of  business,  and  travellers,  who,  like  Homer's  hero, 
have  arrived  in  their  intellectual  country  after  having 
seen  "  many  peoples  and  cities "  ;  but  of  the  settled 
Parisian,  who  keeps  his  appointed  place,  and  lives  on 
his  own  floor  like  the  oyster  on  his  rock,  a  curious 
vestige  of  the  credulity,  the  slowness,  and  the  simplicity 
of  bygone  ages. 

For  one  of  the  singularities  of  Paris  is,  that  it  unites 
twenty  populations  completely  different  in  character 
and  manners.  By  the  side  of  the  gypsies  of  commerce 
and  of  art,  who  wander  through  all  the  several  stages 
of  fortune  or  fancy,  live  a  quiet  race  of  people  with  an 
independence,  or  with  regular  work,  whose  existence 
resembles  the  dial  of  a  clock,  on  which  the  same  hand 
points  by  turns  to  the  same  hours.     If  no  other  city 


COMPENSATION.  6X 

can  show  more  brilliant  and  more  stirring  forms  of  life, 
no  other  contains  more  obscure  and  more  tranquil  ones. 
Great  cities  are  like  the  sea  :  storms  only  agitate  the 
surface  ;  if  you  go  to  the  bottom,  you  find  a  region 
inaccessible  to  the  tumult  and  the  noise. 

For  my  part,  I  have  settled  on  the  verge  of  this 
region,  but  do  not  actually  live  in  it.  I  am  removed 
from  the  turmoil  of  the  world,  and  live  in  the  shelter 
of  solitude,  but  without  being  able  to  disconnect  my 
thoughts  from  the  struggle  going  on.  I  follow  at  a 
distance  all  its  events  of  happiness  or  grief ;  I  join  the 
feasts  and  the  funerals ;  for  how  can  he  who  looks  on, 
and  knows  what  passes,  do  other  than  take  part  ?  Igno- 
rance alone  can  keep  us  strangers  to  the  life  around  us  : 
selfishness  itself  will  not  suffice  for  that. 

These  reflections  I  made  to  myself  in  my  attic,  in  the 
intervals  of  the  various  "  household  works  "  to  which  a 
bachelor  is  forced  when  he  has  no  other  servant  than 
his  own  ready  will.  While  I  was  pursuing  my  deduc- 
tions, I  had  blacked  my  boots,  brushed  my  coat,  and 
tied  my  cravat:  I  had  at  last  arrived  at  the  important 
moment  when  we  pronounce  complacently  that  all  is 
finished,  and  that  well. 

A  grand  resolve  had  just  decided  me  to  depart  from 
my  usual  habits.  The  evening  before,  I  had  seen  by 
the  advertisements  that  the  next  day  was  a  holiday  at 
Sevres,  and  that  the  china  manufactory  would  be  open 
to  the  public.  I  was  tempted  by  the  beauty  of  the 
morning,  and  suddenly  decided  to  go  there. 

On    mv    arrival   at   the  station    on   the   left  bank    I 


62  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

noticed  the  crowd  hurrying  on  in  the  fear  of  being  late. 
Railroads,  besides  many  other  advantages,  will  have 
that  of  teaching  the  French  punctuality.  They  will 
submit  to  the  clock  when  they  are  convinced  that  it  is 
their  master;  they  will  learn  to  wait  when  they  find 
they  will  not  be  waited  for.  Social  virtues  are,  in  a 
great  degree,  good  habits.  How  many  great  qualities 
are  grafted  into  nations  by  their  geographical  position, 
by  political  necessity,  and  by  institutions  !  Avarice  was 
destroyed  for  a  time  among  the  Lacedaemonians  by  the 
creation  of  an  iron  coinage,  too  heavy  and  too  bulky  to 
be  conveniently  hoarded. 

I  found  myself  in  a  carriage  with  two  middle-aged 
sisters  belonging  to  the  domestic  and  retired  class  of 
Parisians  I  have  spoken  of  above.  A  few  civilities  were 
sufficient  to  gain  me  their  confidence,  and  after  some 
minutes  I  was  acquainted  with  their  whole  history. 

They  were  two  poor  women,  left  orphans  at  fifteen, 
and  had  lived  ever  since,  as  those  who  work  for  a  live- 
lihood must  live,  by  economy  and  privation.  For  the 
last  twenty  or  thirty  years  they  had  worked  in  jewelry 
in  the  same  house  ;  they  had  seen  ten  masters  succeed 
one  another,  and  make  their  fortunes  in  it,  without  any 
change  in  their  own  lot.  They  had  always  lived  in  the 
same  room,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  passages  in  the 
Rue  St.  Denis,  where  the  air  and  the  sun  are  unknown. 
They  began  their  work  before  daylight,  went  on  with  it 
till  after  nightfall,  and  saw  year  succeed  to  year  without 
their  lives  being  marked  by  any  other  events  than  the 
Sunday  service,  a  walk,  or  an  illness. 


COMPENSA  TION. 


63 


The  younger  of  these  worthy  workwomen  was  forty, 
and  obeyed  her  sister  as  she  did  when  a  child.  The 
elder  looked  after  her,  took  care  of  her,  and  scolded  her 
with  a  mother's  tenderness.  At  first  it  was  amusing; 
afterwards  one  could  not  help  seeing  something  affecting 
in  these  two  grey-haired  children,  one  unable  to  leave  off 
the  habit  of  obeying,  the  other  that  of  protecting. 

And  it  was  not  in  that  alone  that  my  two  compan- 
ions seemed  younger  than  their  years  ;  they  knew  so  lit- 
tle that  their  wonder  never  ceased.  We  had  hardly 
arrived  at  Clamart  before  they  involuntarily  exclaimed, 
like  the  king  in  the  children's  game,  that  they  did  not 
think  the  world  was  so  great  ! 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  trusted  themselves  on 
a  railroad,  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  their  sudden 
shocks,  their  alarms,  and  their  courageous  determina- 
tions :  everything  was  a  marvel  to  them  !  They  had  re- 
mains of  youth  within  them,  which  made  them  sensible 
to  things  which  usually  only  strike  us  in  childhood. 
Poor  creatures  !  they  had  still  the  feelings  of  another 
age,  though  they  had  lost  its  charms. 

But  was  there  not  something  holy  in  this  simplicity, 
which  had  been  preserved  to  them  by  abstinence  from 
all  the  joys  of  life?  Ah  !  accursed  be  he  who  first  had 
the  bad  courage  to  attach  ridicule  to  that  name  of  Old 
Maid,  which  recalls  so  many  images  of  grievous  decep- 
tion, of  dreariness,  and  of  abandonment !  Accursed  be 
he  who  can  find  a  subject  for  sarcasm  in  involuntary  mis- 
fortune, and  who  can  crown  grey  hairs  with  thorns  ! 

The  two  sisters  were  called  Frances  and  Madeleine. 


64 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


This  day's  journey  was  a  feat  of  courage  without  ex- 
ample in  their  lives.  The  fever  of  the  times  had  infect- 
ed them  unawares.  Yesterday  Madeleine  had  suddenly 
proposed  the  idea  of  the  expedition,  and  Frances  had 
accepted  it  immediately.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  not  to  have  yielded  to  the  temptation  offered  by 
her  young  sister  ;  but  "  we  have  our  follies  at  all  ages," 
as  the  prudent  Frances  philosophically  remarked.  As 
for  Madeleine,  there  are  no  regrets  or  doubts  for  her ; 
she  is  the  life-guardsman  of  the  establishment. 

"  We  really  must  amuse  ourselves,"  said  she ;  "  we 
do  but  live  once.' 

And  the  elder  sister  smiled  at  this  Epicurean  maxim. 
It  was  evident  that  the  fever  of  independence  was  at 
its  crisis  in  both  of  them. 

And  in  truth  it  would  have  been  a  great  pity  if  any 
scruple  had  interfered  with  their  happiness,  it  was  so 
frank  and  genial !  The  sight  of  the  trees,  which  seemed 
to  fly  on  both  sides  of  the  road,  caused  them  unceas- 
ing admiration.  The  meeting  a  train  passing  in  the 
contrary  direction,  with  the  noise  and  rapidity  of  a 
thunderbolt,  made  them  shut  their  eyes  and  utter  a 
cry  ;  but  it  had  already  disappeared  !  They  look  round, 
take  courage  again,  and  express  themselves  full  of  as- 
tonishment at  the  marvel. 

Madeleine  declares  that  such  a  sight  is  worth  the  ex- 
pense of  the  journey,  and  Frances  would  have  agreed 
with  her  if  she  had  not  recollected,  with  some  little 
alarm,  the  deficit  which  such  an  expense  must  make  in 
their  budget.     The  three  francs  spent  upon  this  single 


COMPENSA  TION.  65 

expedition  were  the  savings  of  a  whole  week  of  work. 
Thus  the  joy  of  the  elder  of  the  two  sisters  was  mixed 
with  remorse  ;  the  prodigal  child  now  and  then  turned 
back  its  eyes  toward  the  back  street  of  St.  Denis. 

But  the  motion  and  the  succession  of  objects  dis- 
tract her.  See  the  bridge  of  the  Val  surrounded  by  its 
lovely  landscape :  on  the  right,  Paris  with  its  grand 
monuments,  which  rise  through  the  fog,  or  sparkle  in 
the  sun ;  on  the  left,  Meudon,  with  its  villas,  its  woods, 
its  vines,  and  its  royal  castle  !  The  two  workwomen 
look  from  one  window  to  the  other  with  exclamations  of 
delight.  One  fellow  passenger  laughs  at  their  childish 
wonder  ;  but  to  myself  it  is  very  touching,  for  I  see  in 
it  the  sign  of  a  long  and  monotonous  seclusion  :  they  are 
the  prisoners  of  work,  who  have  recovered  liberty  and 
fresh  air  for  a  few  hours. 

At  last  the  train  stops,  and  we  get  out.  I  show  the 
two  sisters  the  path  that  leads  to  Sevres  between  the 
railway  and  the  gardens,  and  they  go  on  before,  while 
I  inquire  about  the  time  of  returning. 

I  soon  join  them  again  at  the  next  station,  where 
they  have  stopped  at  the  little  garden  belonging  to  the 
gate-keeper ;  both  are  already  in  deep  conversation 
with  him  while  he  digs  his  garden  borders,  and  marks 
out  the  places  for  flower-seeds.  He  informs  them  that 
it  is  the  time  for  hoeing  out  weeds,  for  making  grafts 
and  layers,  for  sowing  annuals,  and  for  destroying  the 
insects  on  the  rose-trees.  Madeleine  has  on  the  sill  of 
her  window  two  wooden  boxes,  in  which,  for  want  of 
air  and  sun,  she  has  never  been  able  to  make  anything 


66  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

grow  but  mustard  and  cress  ;  but  she  persuades  herself 
that,  thanks  to  this  information,  all  other  plants  may 
henceforth  thrive  in  them.  At  last  the  gate-keeper, 
who  is  sowing  a  border  with  mignonette,  gives  her  the 
rest  of  the  seeds  which  he  does  not  want,  and  the  old 
maid  goes  off  delighted,  and  begins  to  act  over  again 
the  dream  of  Perette  and  her  can  of  milk,  with  these 
flowers  of  her  imagination. 

On  reaching  the  grove  of  acacias,  where  the  fair 
was  going  on,  I  lost  sight  of  the  two  sisters.  I  went 
alone  among  the  sights :  there  were  lotteries  going  on, 
mountebank  shows,  places  for  eating  and  drinking,  and 
for  shooting  with  the  cross-bow.  I  have  always  been 
struck  by  the  spirit  of  these  out-of-door  festivities.  In 
drawing-room  entertainments  people  are  cold,  grave, 
often  listless,  and  most  of  those  who  go  there  are  brought 
together  by  habit  or  the  obligations  of  society  ;  in  the 
country  assemblies,  on  the  contrary,  you  only  find  those 
who  are  attracted  by  the  hope  of  enjoyment.  There,  it 
is  a  forced  conscription  ;  here,  they  are  volunteers  for 
gaiety  ?  Then,  how  easily  they  are  pleased  !  How  far 
this  crowd  of  people  is  yet  from  knowing  that  to  be 
pleased  with  nothing,  and  to  look  down  on  everything, 
is  the  height  of  fashion  and  good  taste !  Doubtless 
their  amusements  are  often  coarse  ;  elegance  and  refine- 
ment are  wanting  in  them  ;  but  at  least  they  have  heart- 
iness. Oh  that  the  hearty  enjoyments  of  these  merry- 
makings could  be  retained  in  union  with  less  vulgar 
feeling  !  Formerly  religion  stamped  its  holy  character 
on    the    celebration    of    country  festivals,    and   purified 


COM  PENS  A  TION. 


67 


the  pleasures  without  depriving  them  of  their  sim- 
plicity. 

The  hour  arrives  at  which  the  doors  of  the  porcelain 
manufactory  and  the  museum  of  pottery  are  open  to  the 
public.  I  meet  Frances  and  Madeleine  again  in  the  first 
room.  Frightened  at  finding  themselves  in  the  midst 
of  such  regal  magnificence,  they  hardly  dare  walk  ;  they 
speak  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  they  were  in  a  church. 

"  We  are  in  the  king's  house,"  said  the  eldest  sister, 
forgetting  that  there  is  no  longer  a  king  in  France. 

I  encourage  them  to  go  on ;  I  walk  first,  and  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  follow  me. 

What  wonders  are  brought  together  in  this  collec- 
tion !  Here  we  see  clay  moulded  into  every  shape,  tinted 
with  every  colour,  and  combined  with  every  sort  of  sub- 
stance. 

Earth  and  wood  are  the  first  substances  worked 
upon  by  man,  and  seem  more  particularly  meant  for  his 
use.  They,  like  the  domestic  animals,  are  the  essential 
accessories  of  his  life ;  therefore  there  must  be  a  more 
intimate  connection  between  them  and  us.  Stone  and 
metals  require  long  preparations ;  they  resist  our  first 
efforts,  and  belong  less  to  the  individual  than  to  com- 
munities. Earth  and  wood  are,  on  the  contrary,  the 
principal  instruments  of  the  isolated  being  who  must 
feed  and  shelter  himself. 

This,  doubtless,  makes  me  feel  so  much  interested 
in  the  collection  1  am  examining.  These  cups,  so 
roughly  modelled  by  the  savage,  admit  me  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  some  of  his  habits ;    these   elegant  yet  incor- 


68  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

rectly  formed  vases  of  the  Indian  tell  me  of  a  declining 
intelligence,  in  which  still  glimmers  the  twilight  of  what 
was  once  bright  sunshine  ;  these  jars,  loaded  with  ara- 
besques, show  the  fancy  of  the  Arab  rudely  and  igno- 
rantly  copied  by  the  Spaniard  !  We  find  here  the  stamp 
of  every  race,  every  country,  and  every  age. 

My  companions  seemed  little  interested  in  these  his- 
torical associations ;  they  looked  at  all  with  that  credu- 
lous admiration  which  leaves  no  room  for  examination 
or  discussion.  Madeleine  read  the  name  written  under 
every  piece  of  workmanship,  and  her  sister  answered 
with  an  exclamation  of  wonder. 

In  this  way  we  reached  a  little  courtyard,  where 
they  had  thrown  away  the  fragments  of  some  broken 
china.  Frances  perceived  a  coloured  saucer  almost  whole, 
of  which  she  took  possession  as  a  record  of  the  visit  she 
was  making ;  henceforth  she  would  have  a  specimen  of 
the  Sevres  china,  which  is  o?ily  made  for  kings  !  I  would 
not  undeceive  her  by  telling  her  that  the  products  of 
the  manufactory  are  sold  all  over  the  world,  and  that 
her  saucer,  before  it  was  cracked,  was  the  same  as  those 
that  are  bought  at  the  shops  for  sixpence  !  Why  should 
I  destroy  the  illusions  of  her  humble  existence?  Are 
we  to  break  down  the  hedge-flowers  which  perfume  our 
paths  ?  ^Things  are  oftenest  nothing  in  themselves  ;  the 
thoughts  we  attach  to  them  alone  give  them  value./  To 
rectify  innocent  mistakes,  in  order  to  recover  some  use- 
less reality,  is  to  be  like  those  learned  men  who  will  see 
nothing  in  a  plant  but  the  chemical  elements  of  which  it 
is  composed. 


COM  PENS  A  TION. 


69 


On  leaving  the  manufactory,  the  two  sisters,  who 
had  taken  possession  of  me  with  the  freedom  of  artless- 
ness,  invited  me  to  share  the  luncheon  they  had  brought 
with  them.  I  declined  at  first,  but  they  insisted  with  so 
much  good  nature,  that  I  feared  to  pain  them,  and  with 
some  awkwardness  gave  way. 

We  had  only  to  look  for  a  convenient  spot.  I  led 
them  up  the  hill,  and  we  found  a  plot  of  grass  enamelled 
with  daisies,  and  shaded  by  two  walnut-trees. 

Madeleine  could  not  contain  herself  for  joy.  All 
her  life  she  had  dreamed  of  a  dinner  out  on  the  grass ! 
While  helping  her  sister  to  take  the  provisions  from  the 
basket,  she  tells  me  of  all  her  expeditions  into  the  coun- 
try that  had  been  planned,  and  put  off.  Frances,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  brought  up  at  Montmorency,  and  before 
she  became  an  orphan  she  had  often  gone  back  to  her 
nurse's  house.  That  which  had  the  attraction  of  novelty 
for  her  sister,  had  for  her  the  charm  of  recollection.  She 
told  the  vintage  harvests  to  which  her  parents  had 
taken  her;  the  rides  on  Mother  Luret's  donkey,  that 
they  could  not  make  go  to  the  right  without  pulling 
him  to  the  left ;  the  cherry-gathering ;  and  the  sails  on 
the  lake  in  the  boat  of  the  innkeeper. 

These  recollections  have  all  the  charm  and  freshness 
of  childhood.  Frances  recalls  to  herself  less  what  she 
has  seen  than  what  she  has  felt.  While  she  is  talking 
the  cloth  is  laid,  and  we  sit  down  under  a  tree.  Before 
us  winds  the  valley  of  Sevres,  its  many-storied  houses 
abutting  upon  the  gardens  and  the  slopes  of  the  hill ;  on 
the  other  side  spreads  out  the  park  of   St.  Cloud,  with 


70 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


its  magnificent  clumps  of  trees  interspersed  with  mead- 
ows;  above  stretch  the  heavens  like  an  immense  ocean, 
in  which  the  clouds  are  sailing  !  I  look  at  this  beauti- 
ful country,  and  I  listen  to  these  good  old  maids  ;  I 
admire,  and  I  am  interested  ;  and  time  passes  gently 
on  without  my  perceiving  it. 

At  last  the  sun  sets,  and  we  have  to  think  of  re- 
turning.    While  Madeleine  and  Frances  clear  away  the 

dinner,  I  walk  down 
to  the  manufactory  to 
ask  the  hour.  The 
merrymaking  is  at  its 
height  ;  the  blasts  of 
the  trombones  resound 
from  the  band  under 
the  acacias.  For  a  few 
moments  I  forget  my- 
self with  looking  about- 
but  I  have  promised 
the  two  sisters  to  take 
them  back  to  the  Belle- 
vue  station  :  the  train 
cannot  wait,  and  I 
make  haste  to  climb  the 
path  again  which  leads 
to  the  walnut-trees. 
Just  before  I  reached  them,  I  heard  voices  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge.  Madeleine  and  Frances  were 
speaking  to  a  poor  girl  whose  clothes  were  burnt,  her 
hands    blackened,   and    her    face    tied    up    with    blood- 


COMPENSA  TION. 


71 


stained  bandages.  I  saw  that  she  was  one  of  the  girls 
employed  at  the  gunpowder  mills,  which  are  built 
higher  up  on  the  common.  An  explosion  had  taken 
place  a  few  days  before ;  the  girl's  mother  and  elder 
sister  were  killed  ;  she  herself  escaped  by  a  miracle, 
and  was  now  left  without  any  means  of  support.  She 
told  all  this  with  the  resigned  and  unhopeful  manner 
of  one  who  has  always  been  accustomed  to  suffer.  The 
two  sisters  were  much  affected  ;  I  saw  them  consulting 
with  one  another  in  a  low  tone :  then  Frances  took 
thirty  sous  out  of  a  little  coarse  silk  purse,  which  was 
all  they  had  left,  and  gave  them  to  the  poor  girl.  I 
hastened  on  to  that  side  of  the  hedge ;  but,  before  I 
reached  it,  I  met  the  two  old  sisters,  who  called  out 
to  me  that  they  would  not  return  by  the  railway,  but 
on  foot ! 

I  then  understood  that  the  money  they  had  meant 
for  the  journey  had  just  been  given  to  the  beggar ! 
Good,  like  evil,  is  contagious  :  I  run  to  the  poor  wound- 
ed girl,  give  her  the  sum  that  was  to  pay  for  my  own 
place,  and  return  to  Frances  and  Madeleine,  and  tell 
them  I  will  walk  with  them. 

I  am  just  come  back  from  taking  them  home  ;  and 
have  left  them  delighted  with  their  day,  the  recollec- 
tion of  which  will  long  make  them  happy. 

This  morning  I  was  pitying  those  whose  lives  are 
obscure  and  joyless  ;  now,  I  understand  that  God  has 
provided  a  compensation  with  every  trial.  The  small- 
est pleasure  derives  from  rarity  a  relish  otherwise  un- 


•j2  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

known.  Enjoyment  is  only  what  we  feel  to  be  such, 
and  the  luxurious  man  feels  no  longer  :  satiety  has  de- 
stroyed his  appetite,  while  privation  preserves  to  the 
other  that  first  of  earthly  blessings,  the  being  easily  made 
happy.  Oh,  that  I  could  persuade  every  one  of  this  ! 
that  so  the  rich  might  not  abuse  their  riches,  and  that 
the  poor  might  have  patience.  If  happiness  is  the 
rarest  of  blessings,  it  is  because  the  reception  of  it  is 
the  rarest  of  virtues. 

Madeleine  and  Frances  !  ye  poor  old  maids  whose 
courage,  resignation,  and  generous  hearts  are  your  only 
wealth,  pray  for  the  wretched  who  give  themselves  up 
to  despair ;  for  the  unhappy  who  hate  and  envy ;  and 
for  the  unfeeling  into  whose  enjoyments  no  pity  enters. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


UNCLE   MAURICE. 


June  jth,  four  d clock  A.  M. — I  am  not  surprised  at 
hearing',  when  I  awake,  the  birds  singing  so  joyfully 
outside  my  window  ;  it  is  only  by  living,  as  they  and  I 
do,  in  a  top  story,  that  one  comes  to  know  how  cheer- 
ful the  mornings  really  are  up  among  the  roofs.  It  is 
there  that  the  sun  sends  his  first  rays,  and  the  breeze 
comes  with  the  fragrance  of  the  gardens  and  woods  ; 
there  that  a  wandering  butterfly  sometimes  ventures 
among  the  flowers  of  the  attic,  and  that  the  songs  of 
the  industrious  workwoman  welcome  the  dawn  of  day. 
The  lower  stories  are  still  deep  in  sleep,  silence,  and 
shadow,  while  here  labour,  light,  and  song  already 
reign. 

What  life  is  around  me  !  See  the  swallow  return- 
ing from  her  search  for  food,  with  her  beak  full  of  in- 
sects for  her  young  ones ;  the  sparrows  shake  the  dew 


74 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


from  their  wings  while  they  chase  one  another  in  the 
sunshine ;  and  my  neighbours  throw  open  their  win- 
dows, and  welcome  the  morning  with  their  fresh  faces ! 
Delightful  hour  of  waking,  when  everything  returns  to 
feeling  and  to  motion ;  when  the  first  light  of  day 
strikes  upon  creation,  and  brings  it  to  life  again,  as  the 
magic  wand  struck  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty 
in  the  wood  !  It  is  a  moment  of  rest  from  every  mis- 
ery ;  the  sufferings  of  the  sick  are  allayed,  and  a  breath 
of  hope  enters  into  the  hearts  of  the  despairing.  But, 
alas  !  it  is  but  a  short  respite !  Everything  will  soon 
resume  its  wonted  course  :  the  great  human  machine, 
with  its  long  strains,  its  deep  gasps,  its  collisions,  and 
its  crashes,  will  be  again  put  in  motion. 

The  tranquillity  of  this  first  morning  hour  reminds 
me  of  that  of  our  first  years  of  life.  Then,  too,  the  sun 
shines  brightly,  the  air  is  fragrant,  and  the  illusions  of 
youth — those  birds  of  our  life's  morning — sing  around 
us.  Why  do  they  fly  away  when  we  are  older?  Where 
do  this  sadness  and  this  solitude,  which  gradually  steal 
upon  us,  come  from  ?  The  course  seems  to  be  the  same 
with  individuals  and  with  communities:  at  starting, 
so  readily  made  happy,  so  easily  enchanted  ;  and  at  the 
goal,  the  bitter  disappointment  of  reality  !  The  road, 
which  began  among  hawthorns  and  primroses,  ends 
speedily  in  deserts  or  in  precipices !  Why  is  there  so 
much  confidence  at  first,  so  much  doubt  at  last?  Has, 
then,  the  knowledge  of  life  no  other  end  but  to  make  it 
unfit  for  happiness?  Must  we  condemn  ourselves  to  ig- 
norance if  we  would  preserve  hope  ?     Is  the  world  and 


UNCLE  MAURICE.  yc 

is  the  individual  man  intended,  after  all,  to  find  rest  only 
in  an  eternal  childhood  ? 

How  many  times  have  I  asked  myself  these  ques- 
tions !  Solitude  has  the  advantage  or  the  danger  of  mak- 
ing us  continually  search  more  deeply  into  the  same 
ideas.  As  our  discourse  is  only  with  ourself,  we  always 
give  the  same  direction  to  the  conversation  ;  we  are  not 
called  to  turn  it  to  the  subject  which  occupies  another 
mind,  or  interests  another's  feelings ;  and  so  an  involun- 
tary inclination  makes  us  return  forever  to  knock  at  the 
same  doors  ! 

I  interrupted  my  reflections  to  put  my  attic  in  order. 
I  hate  the  look  of  disorder,  because  it  shows  either  a 
contempt  for  details  or  an  unaptness  for  spiritual  life. 
To  arrange  the  things  among  which  we  have  to  live,  is 
to  establish  the  relation  of  property  and  of  use  between 
them  and  us  :  it  is  to  lay  the  foundation  of  those  habits 
without  which  man  tends  to  the  savage  state.  What,  in 
fact,  is  social  organization  but  a  series  of  habits,  settled 
in  accordance  with  the  dispositions  of  our  nature  ? 

I  distrust  both  the  intellect  and  the  morality  of  those 
people  to  whom  disorder  is  of  no  consequence — who  can 
live  at  ease  in  an  Augean  stable.  What  surrounds  us, 
reflects  more  or  less  that  which  is  within  us.  The  mind 
is  like  one  of  those  dark  lanterns  which,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, still  throw  some  light  around.  If  our  tastes  did 
not  reveal  our  character,  they  would  be  no  longer  tastes, 
but  instincts. 

While  I  was  arranging  everything  in  my  attic,  my 
eyes   rested    on    the    little   almanac    hanging   over   my 


76  -4JV  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

chimney-piece.  I  looked  for  the  day  of  the  month,  and  I 
saw  these  words  written  in  large  letters:  "Fete  Dieu"! 

It  is  to-day !  In  this  great  city,  where  there  are  no 
longer  any  public  religious  solemnities,  there  is  nothing 
to  remind  us  of  it ;  but  it  is,  in  truth,  the  period  so  hap- 
pily chosen  by  the  primitive  church.  "  The  day  kept  in 
honor  of  the  Creator,"  says  Chateaubriand,  "  happens  at 
a  time  when  the  heaven  and  the  earth  declare  His  power, 
when  the  woods  and  fields  are  full  of  new  life,  and  all 
are  united  by  the  happiest  ties :  there  is  not  a  single 
widowed  plant  in  the  fields." 

What  recollections  these  words  have  just  awakened  ! 
I  left  off  what  I  was  about,  I  leaned  my  elbows  on  the 
window-sill,  and,  with  my  head  between  my  two  hands, 
I  went  back  in  thought  to  the  little  town  where  the  first 
days  of  my  childhood  were  passed. 

The  Fete  Dieu  was  then  one  of  the  great  events  of 
my  life !  It  was  necessary  to  be  diligent  and  obe- 
dient a  long  time  beforehand,  to  deserve  to  share  in 
it.  I  still  recollect  with  what  raptures  of  expectation 
I  got  up  on  the  morning  of  the  day.  There  was  a 
holy  joy  in  the  air.  The  neighbours,  up  earlier  than 
usual,  hung  cloths  with  flowers  or  figures,  worked  in 
tapestry,  along  the  streets.  I  went  from  one  to  an- 
other, by  turns  admiring  religious  scenes  of  the  mid- 
dle ages,  mythological  compositions  of  the  Renais- 
sance, old  battles  in  the  style  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the 
Arcadias  of  Madame  de  Pompadour.  All  this  world 
of  phantoms  seemed  to  be  coming  forth  from  the  dust  of 
past  ages,  to  assist — silent  and  motionless — at  the  holy 


UNCLE   MAURICE. 


77 


ceremony.  I  looked,  alternately  in  fear  and  wonder,  at 
those  terrible  warriors  with  their  swords  always  raised, 
those  beautiful  huntresses  shooting  the  arrow  which 
never  left  the  bow,  and  those  shepherds  in  satin  breeches 
always  playing  the  flute  at  the  feet  of  the  perpetually 
smiling  shepherdess.  Sometimes,  when  the  wind  blew 
behind  these  hanging  pictures,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
figures  themselves  moved,  and  I  watched  to  see  them 
detach  themselves  from  the  wall,  and  take  their  places  in 
the  procession  !  But  these  impressions  were  vague  and 
transitory.  The  feeling  that  predominated  over  every 
other  was  that  of  an  overflowing  yet  quiet  joy.  In  the 
midst  of  all  the  floating  draperies,  the  scattered  flowers, 
the  voices  of  the  maidens,  and  the  gladness  which,  like  a 
perfume,  exhaled  from  everything,  you  felt  transported 
in  spite  of  yourself.  The  joyful  sounds  of  the  festival 
were  repeated  in  your  heart,  in  a  thousand  melodious 
echoes.  You  were  more  indulgent,  more  holy,  more 
loving !  For  God  was  not  only  manifesting  himself 
without,  but  also  within  us. 

And  then  the  altars  for  the  occasion !  the  flowery 
arbours!  the  triumphal  arches  made  of  green  boughs! 
What  competition  among  the  different  parishes  for  the 
erection  of  the  resting-places  *  where  the  procession  was 
to  halt!  It  was  who  should  contribute  the  rarest  and 
the  most  beautiful  of  his  possessions  ! 

It  was  there  I  made  my  first  sacrifice  ! 

The  wreaths  of  flowers  were  arranged,  the  candles 

*The  reposoirs,  or  temporary   altars,  on  which  the  consecrated  elements 
are  placed  while  the  procession  halts. 


78  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

lighted,  and  the  Tabernacle  *  dressed  with  roses ;  but 
one  was  wanting  fit  to  crown  the  whole  !  All  the  neigh- 
bouring gardens  had  been  ransacked.  I  alone  possessed 
a  flower  worthy  of  such  a  place.  It  was  on  the  rose- 
tree  given  me  by  my  mother  on  my  birthday.  I  had 
watched  it  for  several  months,  and  there  was  no  other 
bud  to  blow  on  the  tree.  There  it  was,  half  open,  in  its 
mossy  nest,  the  object  of  such  long  expectations,  and  of 
all  a  child's  pride  !  I  hesitated  for  some  moments.  No 
one  had  asked  me  for  it ;  I  might  easily  avoid  losing  it. 
I  should  hear  no  reproaches,  but  one  rose  noiselessly 
within  me.  When  every  one  else  had  given  all  they  had, 
ought  I  alone  to  keep  back  my  treasure  ?  Ought  I  to 
grudge  to  God  one  of  the  gifts  which,  like  all  the  rest, 
I  had  received  from  Him  ?  At  this  last  thought  I 
plucked  the  flower  from  the  stem,  and  took  it  to  put  at 
the  top  of  the  Tabernacle.  Ah  !  why  does  the  recollec- 
tion of  this  sacrifice,  which  was  so  hard  and  yet  so  sweet 
to  me,  now  make  me  smile?  Is  it  so  certain  that  the 
value  of  a  gift  is  in  itself,  rather  than  in  the  intention  ? 
If  the  cup  of  cold  water  in  the  gospel  is  remembered  to 
the  poor  man,  why  should  not  the  flower  be  remembered 
to  the  child  ?  Let  us  not  look  down  upon  the  child's 
simple  acts  of  generosity  ;  it  is  these  which  accustom 
the  soul  to  self-denial  and  to  sympathy.  I  cherished 
this  moss-rose  a  long  time  as  a  sacred  talisman ;  I  had 
reason  to  cherish  it  always,  as  the  record  of  the  first 
victory  won  over  myself. 

It  is  now  many  years  since  I  witnessed  the  celebra- 

*An  ornamental  case  or  cabinet,  which  contains  the  bread  and  wine. 


I  plucked  the  flower  from  the  stem. 


UNCLE  MAURICE.  yg 

tion  of  the  Fete  Dicn ;  but  should  I  again  feel  in  it 
the  happy  sensations  of  former  days  ?  I  still  remember 
how,  when  the  procession  had  passed,  I  walked  through 
the  streets  strewn  with  flowers  and  shaded  with  green 
boughs.  I  felt  intoxicated  by  the  lingering  perfumes  of 
the  incense,  mixed  with  the  fragrance  of  syringas,  jessa- 
mines, and  roses,  and  I  seemed  no  longer  to  touch  the 
ground  as  I  went  along.  I  smiled  at  everything  ;  the 
whole  world  was  Paradise  in  my  eyes,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  God  was  floating  in  the  air! 

Moreover,  this  feeling  was  not  the  excitement  of  the 
moment :  it  might  be  more  intense  on  certain  days,  but 
at  the  same  time  it  continued  through  the  ordinary 
course  of  my  life.  Many  years  thus  passed  for  me  in  an 
expansion  of  heart,  and  a  trustfulness  which  prevented 
sorrow,  if  not  from  coming,  at  least  from  staying  with 
me.  Sure  of  not  being  alone,  I  soon  took  heart  again,  like 
the  child  who  recovers  its  courage,  because  it  hears  its 
mother's  voice  close  by.  f  Why  have  I  lost  that  confi- 
dence of  my  childhood?"  Shall  I  never  feel  again  so 
deeply  that  God  is  here  ? 

How  strange  the  association  of  our  thoughts  !  A  day 
of  the  month  recalls  my  infancy,  and  see,  all  the  recol- 
lections of  my  former  years  are  growing  up  around  me  ! 
Why  was  I  so  happy  then  ?  I  consider  well,  and  noth- 
ing is  sensibly  changed  in  my  condition.  I  possess,  as  I 
did  then,  health  and  my  daily  bread  ;  the  only  difference 
is,  that  I  am  now  responsible  for  myself !  As  a  child,  I 
accepted  life  when  it  came  ;  another  cared  and  provided 
for  me.     As  long  as  I  fulfilled  my  present  duties  I  was 


80  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

at  peace  within,  and  I  left  the  future  to  the  prudence  of 
my  father !  My  destiny  was  a  ship,  in  the  direction  of 
which  I  had  no  share,  and  in  which  I  sailed  as  a  common 
passenger.  There  was  the  whole  secret  of  childhood's 
happy  security.  Since  then  worldly  wisdom  has  de- 
prived me  of  it.  When  my  lot  was  entrusted  to  my  own 
and  sole  keeping,  I  thought  to  make  myself  master  of  it 
by  means  of  a  long  insight  into  the  future.  I  have  filled 
the  present  hour  with  anxieties,  by  occupying  my 
thoughts  with  the  future ;  I  have  put  my  judgment  in 
the  place  of  Providence,  and  the  happy  child  is  changed 
into  the  anxious  man. 

A  melancholy  course,  yet  perhaps  an  important  les- 
son. Who  knows  that,  if  I  had  trusted  more  to  Him 
who  rules  the  world,  I  should  not  have  been  spared  all 
this  anxiety  ?  It  may  be  that  happiness  is  not  possible 
here  below,  but  on  the  condition  of  living  like  a  child, 
giving  ourselves  up  to  the  duties  of  each  day  as  it  comes, 
and  trusting  in  the  goodness  of  our  heavenly  Father  for 
all  besides. 

This  reminds  me  of  my  uncle  Maurice  !  Whenever  I 
have  need  to  strengthen  myself  in  all  that  is  good,  I  turn 
my  thoughts  to  him  ;  I  see  again  the  gentle  expression 
of  his  half-smiling,  half-mournful  face  ;  I  hear  his  voice, 
always  soft  and  soothing  as  a  breath  of  summer  !  The 
remembrance  of  him  protects  my  life,  and  gives  it  light. 
He,  too,  was  a  saint  and  martyr  here  below.  Others 
have  pointed  out  the  path  of  heaven  ;  he  has  taught  us 
to  see  those  of  earth  aright. 

But  except  the  angels,  who  are  charged  with  noting 


UNCLE  MAURICE.  8 1 

down  the  sacrifices  performed  in  secret,  and  the  virtues 
which  are  never  known,  who  has  ever  heard  speak  of  my 
uncle  Maurice?  Perhaps  I  alone  remember  his  name, 
and  still  recall  his  history. 

Well !  I  will  write  it,  not  for  others,  but  for  myself ! 
They  say  that,  at  the  sight  of  the  Apollo,  the  body 
erects  itself  and  assumes  a  more  dignified  attitude  :  in 
the  same  way,  the  soul  should  feel  itself  raised  and  en- 
nobled by  the  recollection  of  a  good  man's  life ! 

A  ray  of  the  rising  sun  lights  up  the  little  table  on 
which  I  write  ;  the  breeze  brings  me  in  the  scent  of  the 
mignonette,  and  the  swallows  wheel  about  my  window 
with  joyful  twitterings.  The  image  of  my  uncle  Mau- 
rice will  be  in  its  proper  place  amid  the  songs,  the  sun- 
shine, and  the  fragrance. 

Seven  o  clock.— \t  is  with  men's  lives  as  with  days : 
some  dawn  radiant  with  a  thousand  colors,  others  dark 
with  gloomy  clouds.  That  of  my  uncle  Maurice  was 
one  of  the  latter.  He  was  so  sickly  when  he  came  into 
the  world,  that  they  thought  he  must  die ;  but,  not- 
withstanding these  anticipations,  which  might  be  called 
hopes,  he  continued  to  live,  suffering  and  deformed. 

He  was  deprived  of  all  joys  as  well  as  of  all  the  attrac- 
tions of  childhood.  He  was  oppressed  because  he  was 
weak,  and  laughed  at  for  his  deformity.  In  vain  the 
little  hunchback  opened  his  arms  to  the  world  ;  the 
world  scoffed  at  him,  and  went  its  way. 

However,  he  still  had  his  mother,  and  it  was  to  her 
that  the  child  directed  all  the  feelings  of  a  heart  repulsed 
by  others.     With  her  he  found  shelter,  and  was  happy, 


g2  AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

till  he  reached  the  age  when  a  man  must  take  his  place 
in  life  ;  and  Maurice  had  to  content  himself  with  that 
which  others  had  refused  with  contempt.  His  education 
would  have  qualified  him  for  any  course  of  life  ;  and  he 
became  an  octroi-clerk  *  in  one  of  the  little  toll-houses  at 
the  entrance  of  his  native  town. 

He  was  always  shut  up  in  this  dwelling  of  a  few  feet 
square,  with  no  relaxation  from  the  office  accounts  but 
reading  and  his  mother's  visits.  On  fine  summer  days 
she  came  to  work  at  the  door  of  his  hut,  under  the  shade 
of  a  clematis  planted  by  Maurice.  And,  even  when  she 
was  silent,  her  presence  was  a  pleasant  change  for  the 
hunchback  :  he  heard  the  clinking  of  her  long  knitting- 
needles  ;  he  saw  her  mild  and  mournful  profile,  which 
reminded  him  of  so  many  courageously  borne  trials  ;  he 
could  every  now  and  then  rest  his  hand  affectionately  on 
that  bowed-down  neck,  and  exchange  a  smile  with  her  ! 

This  comfort  was  soon  to  be  taken  from  him.  His 
old  mother  fell  sick,  and  at  the  end  of  a  few  days  he  had 
to  give  up  all  hope.  Maurice  was  overcome  at  the  idea 
of  a  separation  which  would  henceforth  leave  him  alone 
on  earth,  and  abandoned  himself  to  boundless  grief.  He 
knelt  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman,  he  called  her 
by  the  fondest  names,  he  pressed  her  in  his  arms,  as  if 
he  could  so  keep  her  in  life.  His  mother  tried  to  re- 
turn his  caresses,  and  to  answer  him  ;  but  her  hands 
were  cold,  her  voice  already  gone.  She  could  only  press 
her  lips  against  the  forehead  of  her  son,  heave  a  sigh, 
and  close  her  eyes  forever  ! 

*The  octroi  is  the  tax  on  provisions  levied  at  the  entrance  of  the  towns. 


UNCLE  MAURICE.  83 

They  tried  to  take  Maurice  away,  but  he  resisted 
them  and  threw  himself  on  that  now  motionless  form. 

"  Dead  !  "  cried  he  ;  "  dead  !  She  who  had  never  left 
me,  she  who  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  loved 
me !  You,  my  mother,  dead  !  What  then  remains  for 
me  here  below?  " 

A  stifled  voice  replied  : 

"  God  ! " 

Maurice,  startled,  raised  himself  up  !  Was  it  a  last 
sigh  from  the  dead,  or  his  own  conscience,  that  had  an- 
swered him  ?  He  did  not  seek  to  know,  but  he  under- 
stood the  answer,  and  accepted  it. 

It  was  then  that  I  first  knew  him.  I  often  went  to 
see  him  in  his  little  toll-house.  He  mixed  in  my  child- 
ish games,  told  me  his  finest  stories,  and  let  me  gather 
his  flowers.  Deprived  as  he  was  of  all  external  attract- 
iveness, he  showed  himself  full  of  kindness  to  all  who 
came  to  him,  and,  though  he  never  would  put  himself 
forward,  he  had  a  welcome  for  every  one.  Deserted, 
despised,  he  submitted  to  everything  with  a  gentle 
patience  ;  and  while  he  was  thus  stretched  on  the  cross 
of  life,  amid  the  insults  of  his  executioners,  he  repeated 
with  Christ,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not 
what  they  do." 

No  other  clerk  showed  so  much  honesty,  zeal,  and 
intelligence  ;  but  those  who  otherwise  might  have  pro- 
moted him  as  his  services  deserved  were  repulsed  by 
his  deformity.  As  he  had  no  patrons,  he  found  his 
claims  were  always  disregarded.  They  preferred  before 
him  those  who  were   better  able  to    make   themselves 


84 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


agreeable,  and  seemed  to  be  granting  him  a  favour  when 
letting  him  keep  the  humble  office  which  enabled  him  to 
live.  Uncle  Maurice  bore  injustice  as  he  had  borne 
contempt ;  unfairly  treated  by  men,  he  raised  his  eyes 
higher,  and  trusted  in  the  justice  of  Him  who  cannot 
be  deceived. 

He  lived  in  an  old  house  in  the  suburb,  where  many 
workpeople,  as  poor  but  not  as  forlorn  as  he,  also 
lodged.  Among  these  neighbours  there  was  a  single 
woman,  who  lived  by  herself  in  a  little  garret,  into 
which  came  both  wind  and  rain.  She  was  a  young  girl, 
pale,  silent,  and  with  nothing  to  recommend  her  but  her 
wretchedness  and  her  resignation  to  it.  She  was  never 
seen  speaking  to  any  other  woman,  and  no  song  cheered 
her  garret.  She  worked  without  interest  and  without 
relaxation ;  a  depressing  gloom  seemed  to  envelop  her 
like  a  shroud.  Her  dejection  affected  Maurice  ;  he  at- 
tempted to  speak  to  her :  she  replied  mildly,  but  in  few 
words.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  preferred  her  silence 
and  her  solitude  to  the  little  hunchback's  good  will  ;  he 
perceived  it,  and  said  no  more. 

But  Toinette's  needle  was  hardly  sufficient  for  her 
support,  and  presently  work  failed  her  !  Maurice  learned 
that  the  poor  girl  was  in  want  of  everything,  and  that 
the  tradesmen  refused  to  give  her  credit.  He  immedi- 
ately went  to  them,  and  privately  engaged  to  pay  them 
for  what  they  supplied  Toinette  with. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  several  months.  The 
young  dressmaker  continued  out  of  work,  until  she  was 
at  last  frightened  at  the   bills  she  had  contracted  with 


UNCLE  MAURICE.  85 

the  shopkeepers.  When  she  came  to  an  explanation 
with  them,  everything  was  discovered.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  run  to  Uncle  Maurice,  and  thank  him  on  her 
knees.  Her  habitual  reserve  had  given  way  to  a  burst 
of  deepest  feeling.  It  seemed  as  if  gratitude  had  melted 
all  the  ice  of  that  numbed  heart. 

Being  now  no  longer  embarrassed  with  a  secret,  the 
little  hunchback  could  give  greater  efficacy  to  his  good 
offices.  Toinette  became  to  him  a  sister,  for  whose 
wants  he  had  a  right  to  provide.  It  was  the  first  time 
since  the  death  of  his  mother  that  he  had  been  able  to 
share  his  life  with  another.  The  young  woman  re- 
ceived his  attentions  with  feeling,  but  with  reserve. 
All  Maurice's  efforts  were  insufficient  to  dispel  her 
gloom  :  she  seemed  touched  by  his  kindness,  and 
sometimes  expressed  her  sense  of  it  with  warmth ;  but 
there  she  stopped.  Her  heart  was  a  closed  book,  which 
the  little  hunchback  might  bend  over,  but  could  not 
read.  In  truth  he  cared  little  to  do  so :  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  happiness  of  being  no  longer  alone,  and 
took  Toinette  such  as  her  long  trials  had  made  her ;  he 
loved  her  as  she  was,  and  wished  for  nothing  else  but 
still  to  enjoy  her  company. 

This  thought  insensibly  took  possession  of  his  mind, 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  besides.  The  poor  girl  was  as 
forlorn  as  himself ;  she  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
deformity  of  the  hunchback,  and  she  seemed  to  look 
on  him  with  an  affectionate  sympathy  !  What  more 
could  he  wish  for?  Until  then,  the  hopes  of  making 
himself  acceptable  to  a  helpmate   had  been  repelled  by 


86  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

Maurice  as  a  dream  ;  but  chance  seemed  willing  to 
make  it  a  reality.  After  much  hesitation  he  took  cour- 
age, and  decided  to  speak  to  her. 

It  was  evening ;  the  little  hunchback,  in  much  agi- 
tation, directed  his  steps  toward  the  workwoman's  gar- 
ret. Just  as  he  was  about  to  enter,  he  thought  he  heard 
a  strange  voice  pronouncing  the  maiden's  name.  He 
quickly  pushed  open  the  door,  and  perceived  Toinette 
weeping,  and  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  a  young  man  in 
the  dress  of  a  sailor. 

At  the  sight  of  my  uncle,  she  disengaged  herself 
quickly,  and  ran  to  him,  crying  out : 

"Ah  !  come  in — come  in  !  It  is  he  that  I  thought 
was  dead  :  it  is  Julien  ;  it  is  my  betrothed  !  " 

Maurice  tottered,  and  drew  back.  A  single  word 
had  told  him  all ! 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  ground  shook  and  his 
heart  was  going  to  break ;  but  the  same  voice  that  he 
had  heard  by  his  mother's  death-bed  again  sounded  in 
his  ears,  and  he  soon  recovered  himself.  God  was  still 
his  friend  ! 

He  himself  accompanied  the  newly  maried  pair  on 
the  road  when  they  went  away,  and,  after  having  wished 
them  all  the  happiness  which  was  denied  to  him,  he  re- 
turned with  resignation  to  the  old  house  in  the  suburb. 

It  was  there  that  he  ended  his  life,  forsaken  by  men, 
but  not  as  he  said  by  the  Father  which  is  in  heaven.  He 
felt  His  presence  everywhere  ;  it  was  to  him  in  the 
place  of  all  else.  When  he  died,  it  was  with  a  smile, 
and  like  an  exile  setting  out  for  his  own  country.     He 


UNCLE  MAURICE.  87 

who  had  consoled  him  in  poverty  and  ill  health,  when 
he  was  suffering  from  injustice  and  forsaken  by  all,  had 
made  death  a  gain  and  blessing  to  him. 

Eight  d clock. — All  I  have  just  written  has  pained  me  ! 
Till  now  I  have  looked  into  life  for  instruction  how  to 
live.  Is  it  then  true  that  human  maxims  are  not  always 
sufficient  ?  that  beyond  goodness,  prudence,  moderation, 
humility,  self-sacrifice  itself,  there  is  one  great  truth, 
which  alone  can  face  great  misfortunes?  and  that,  if  man 
has  need  of  virtues  for  others,  he  has  need  of  religion 
for  himself? 

When,  in  youth,  we  drink  our  wine  with  a  merry 
heart,  as  the  Scripture  expresses  it,  we  think  we  are 
sufficient  for  ourselves ;  strong,  happy,  and  beloved,  we 
believe,  like  Ajax,  we  shall  be  able  to  escape  every 
storm  in  spite  of  the  gods.  But  later  in  life  when  the 
back  is  bowed,  when  happiness  proves  a  fading  flower, 
and  the  affections  grow  chill — then,  in  fear  of  the  void 
and  the  darkness,  we  stretch  out  our  arms,  like  the  child 
overtaken  by  night,  and  we  call  for  help  to  Him  zvho  is 
everyzvJicre. 

I  was  asking  this  morning  why  this  growing  con- 
fusion alike  for  society  and  for  the  individual  ?  In  vain 
does  human  reason  from  hour  to  hour  light  some  new 
torch  on  the  roadside  :  the  night  continues  to  grow  ever 
darker !  Is  it  not  because  we  are  content  to  withdraw 
farther  and  farther  from  God,  the  Sun  of  spirits? 

But  what  do  these  hermit's  reveries  signify  to  the 
world  ?  The  inward  turmoils  of  most  men  are  stifled  by 
the  outward  ones ;  life  does  not  give  them  time  to  ques- 


88 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


tion  themselves.  Have  they  time  to  know  what  they 
are,  and  what  they  should  be,  whose  whole  thoughts  are 
in  the  next  lease  or  the  last  price  of  stock  ?  Heaven  is 
very  high,  and  wise  men  look  only  to  the  earth. 

But  I — poor  savage  amid  all  this  civilization,  who  seek 
neither  power  nor  riches,  and  who  have  found  in  my 
own  thoughts  the  home  and  shelter  of  my  spirit — I  can 
go  back  with  impunity  to  these  recollections  of  my  child- 
hood ;  and,  if  this  our  great  city  no  longer  honours  the 
name  of  God  with  a  festival,  I  will  strive  still  to  keep 
the  feast  to  Him  in  my  heart. 


/,S¥MW%- 


THE    PRICE    OE    POWER 
\ND  THE  WORTH  OF  FAME. 

Sunday,  July  ist. — 
Yesterday  the  month 
dedicated  to  Juno  (Ju- 
nius, June)  by  the  Ro- 
mans ended.  To-day  we 
enter  on  July. 
In  ancient  Rome  this  latter  month 
was  called  Quintilis  (the  fifth),  be- 
cause the  year,  which  was  then  only  divided  into  ten 
parts,  began  in  March.  When  Numa  Pompilius  di- 
vided it  into  twelve  months  this  name  of  Quintilis 
was  preserved,  as  well  as  those  that  followed — Sex- 
tilis,  September,  October,  November,  December — although 
these  designations  did  not  accord  with  the  newly  ar- 
ranged order  of  the  months.  At  last,  after  a  time  the 
month  Quintilis,  in  which  Julius  Caesar  was  born,  was 
called  Julius,  from  whence  we  have  July.  Thus  this 
name,  placed  in  the  calendar,  is  become  the  imperish- 
able   record    of   a   great    man ;    it   is  an    immortal    epi- 


go  AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

taph  on  Time's  highway,  engraved  by  the  admiration 
of  man. 

How  many  similar  inscriptions  are  there!  Seas, 
continents,  mountains,  stars,  and  monuments  have  all  in 
succession  served  the  same  purpose  !  We  have  turned 
the  whole  world  into  a  Golden  Book,  like  that  in  which 
the  state  of  Venice  used  to  enroll  its  illustrious  names 
and  its  great  deeds.  It  seems  that  mankind  feels  a  ne- 
cessity for  honouring  itself  in  its  elect  ones,  and  that  it 
raises  itself  in  its  own  eyes  by  choosing  heroes  from 
among  its  own  race.  The  human  family  love  to  pre- 
serve the  memory  of  the  "  parvenus  "  of  glory,  as  we 
cherish  that  of  a  renowned  ancestor,  or  of  a  bene- 
factor. 

In  fact,  the  talents  granted  to  a  single  individual  do 
not  benefit  himself  alone,  but  are  gifts  to  the  world  ; 
every  one  shares  them,  for  every  one  suffers  or  benefits 
by  his  actions.  Genius  is  a  lighthouse,  meant  to  give 
light  from  afar  ;  the  man  who  bears  it  is  but  the  rock 
upon  which  this  lighthouse  is  built. 

I  love  to  dwell  upon  these  thoughts ;  they  explain  to 
me  in  what  consists  our  admiration  for  glory.  When 
glory  has  benefitted  men,  that  admiration  is  gratitude  : 
when  it  is  only  remarkable  in  itself,  it  is  the  pride  of 
race;  as  men,  we  love  to  immortalize  the  most  shining 
examples  of  humanity. 

Who  knows  whether  we  do  not  obey  the  same  in- 
stinct in  submitting  to  the  hand  of  power?  Apart  from 
the  requirements  of  a  gradation  of  ranks,  or  the  conse- 
quences of  a  conquest,  the  multitude  delight  to  surround 


PRICE    OF  POWER  AND   WORTH  OF  FAME.  gi 

their  chiefs  with  privileges  —  whether  it  be  that  their 
vanity  makes  them  thus  to  aggrandize  one  of  their  own 
creations,  or  whether  they  try  to  conceal  the  humilia- 
tion of  subjection  by  exaggerating  the  importance  of 
those  who  rule  them.  They  wish  to  honour  themselves 
through  their  master ;  they  elevate  him  on  their 
shoulders  as  on  a  pedestal ;  they  surround  him  with  a 
halo  of  light,  in  order  that  some  of  it  may  be  reflected 
upon  themselves.  It  is  still  the  fable  of  the  dog  who 
contents  himself  with  the  chain  and  collar,  so  that  they 
are  of  gold. 

This  servile  vanity  is  not  less  natural  or  less  common 
than  the  vanity  of  dominion.  Whoever  feels  himself 
incapable  of  command,  at  least  desires  to  obey  a  power- 
ful chief.  Serfs  have  been  know  to  consider  themselves 
dishonoured  when  they  became  the  property  of  a  mere 
count  after  having  been  that  of  a  prince,  and  Saint-Si- 
mon mentions  a  valet  who  would  only  wait  upon  mar- 
quises. 

July  yth,  seven  o'clock,  P.  M. — I  have  just  now  been  up 
the  Boulevards ;  it  was  the  opera  night,  and  there  was 
a  crowd  of  carriages  in  the  Rue  Lepelletier.  The  foot 
passengers  who  were  stopped  at  a  crossing  recognized 
the  persons  in  some  of  these  as  they  went  by,  and  men- 
tioned their  names ;  they  were  those  of  celebrated  or 
powerful  men,  the  successful  ones  of  the  day. 

Near  me  there  was  a  man  looking  on  with  hollow 
cheeks  and  eager  eyes,  and  whose  black  coat  was 
threadbare.  He  followed  with  envious  looks  these  pos- 
sessors of  the  privileges  of  power  or  of  fame,  and  I  read 


g2  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

on  his  lips,  which  curled  with  a  bitter  smile,  all  that 
passed  in  his  mind. 

"  Look  at  them,  the  lucky  fellows  !  "  thought  he  ;  "  all 
the  pleasures  of  wealth,  all  the  enjoyments  of  pride,  are 
theirs.  Their  names  are  renowned,  all  their  wishes  ful- 
filled ;  they  are  the  sovereigns  of  the  world  either  by 
their  intellect  or  their  power;  and  while  I,  poor  and  un- 
known, toil  painfully  along  the  road  below,  they  wing 
their  way  over  the  mountain-tops  gilded  by  the  broad 
sunshine  of  prosperity." 

I  have  come  home  in  deep  thought.  Is  it  true  that 
there  are  these  inequalities,  I  do  not  say  in  the  fortunes, 
but  in  the  happiness  of  men  ?  Do  genius  and  authority 
really  wear  life  as  a  crown,  while  the  greater  part  of 
mankind  receive  it  as  a  yoke  ?  Is  the  difference  of  rank 
but  a  different  use  of  men's  dispositions  and  talents,  or  a 
real  inequality  in  their  destinies?  A  solemn  question, 
as  it  regards  the  verification  of  God's  impartiality. 

July  8th,  noon. — I  went  this  morning  to  call  upon  a 
friend  from  the  same  province  as  myself,  and  who  is 
first  usher  in  waiting  to  one  of  our  ministers.  I  took 
him  some  letters  from  his  family,  left  for  him  by  a  trav- 
eller just  come  from  Brittany.     He  wished  me  to  stay. 

"  To-day,"  said  he,  "  the  minister  gives  no  audience  ; 
he  takes  a  day  of  rest  with  his  family.  His  younger  sis- 
ters are  arrived  :  he  will  take  them  this  morning  to  St. 
Cloud,  and  in  the  evening  he  has  invited  his  friends  to  a 
private  ball.  I  shall  be  dismissed  directly  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  We  can  dine  together  ;  read  the  news  while 
you  are  waiting  for  me." 


PRICE    OF  POWER  AND   WORTH  OF  FAME.  g? 

I  sat  down  at  a  table  covered  with  newspapers,  all  of 
which  I  looked  over  by  turns.  Most  of  them  contained 
severe  criticisms  on  the  last  political  acts  of  the  minister; 
some  of  them  added  suspicions  as  to  the  honour  of  the 
minister  himself. 

Just  as  I  had  finished  reading,  a  secretary  came  for 
them  to  take  them  to  his  master. 

He  was  then  about  to  read  these  accusations,  to  suf- 
fer silently  the  abuse  of  all  those  tongues  which  were 
holding  him  up  to  indignation  or  to  scorn  !  Like  the 
Roman  victor  in  his  triumph,  he  had  to  endure  the  in- 
sults of  him  who  followed  his  car,  relating  to  the  crowd 
his  follies,  his  ignorance,  or  his  vices. 

But,  among  the  arrows  shot  at  him  from  every  side, 
would  no  one  be  found  poisoned  ?  Would  not  one 
reach  some  spot  in  his  heart  where  the  wound  would  be 
incurable  ?  What  is  the  worth  of  a  life  exposed  to  the 
attacks  of  envious  hatred  or  furious  conviction  ?  The 
Christians  vielded  only  the  fragments  of  their  flesh  to 
the  beasts  of  the  amphitheatres  ;  the  man  in  power  gives 
up  his  peace,  his  affections,  his  honour,  to  the  cruet  bites 
of  the  pen. 

While  I  was  musing  upon  these  dangers  of  greatness, 
the  usher  entered  hastily.  Important  news  has  been  re- 
ceived :  the  minister  is  just  summoned  to  the  council; 
he  will  not  be  able  to  take  his  sisters  to  St.  Cloud. 

I  saw,  through  the  windows,  the  young  ladies,  who 
were  waiting  at  the  door,  sorrowfully  go  up  stairs  again, 
while  their  brother  went  off  to  the  council.  The  carriage, 
which  should  have  gone  filled  with  so  much  familv  hap- 


94 


AN  ATTIC  PJIILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


piness,  is  just  out  of  sight,  carrying  only  the  cares  of  a 
statesman  in  it. 

The  usher  came  back  discontented  and  disappointed. 

The  more  or  less  of  liberty  which  he  is  allowed  to 
enjoy  is  his  barometer  of  the  political  atmosphere.  If 
he  gets  leave,  all  goes  well ;  if  he  is  kept  at  his  post,  the 
country  is  in  danger.  His  opinion  on  public  affairs  is 
but  a  calculation  of  his  own  interest.  My  friend  is 
almost  a  statesman 

I  had  some  conversation  with  him,  and  he  told  me 
several  curious  particulars  of  public  life. 

The  new  minister  has  old  friends  whose  opinions  he 
opposes,  though  he  still  retains  his  personal  regard  for 
them.  Though  separated  from  them  by  the  colours  he 
fights  under,  they  remain  united  by  old  associations ; 
but  the  exigencies  of  party  forbid  him  to  meet  them. 
If  their  intercourse  continued,  it  would  awaken  suspi- 
cion ;  people  would  imagine  that  some  dishonourable 
bargain  was  going  on  ;  his  friends  would  be  held  to  be 
traitors  desirous  to  sell  themselves,  and  he  the  corrupt 
minister  prepared  to  buy  them.  He  has,  therefore,  been 
obliged  to  break  off  friendships  of  twenty  years'  stand- 
ing, and  to  sacrifice  attachments  which  had  become  a 
second  nature. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  minister  still  gives  way  to 
his  old  feelings;  he  receives  or  visits  his  friends  pri- 
vately ;  he  shuts  himself  up  with  them,  and  talks  of 
the  times  when  they  could  be  open  friends.  By  dint 
of  precautions  they  have  hitherto  succeeded  in  con- 
cealing this  plot  of  friendship  against  policy  ;  but  sooner 


PRICE   OF  POWER   AND   WORTH  OF  FAME. 


95 


or  later  the  newspapers  will  be  informed  of  it,  and  will 
denounce  him  to  the  country  as  an  object  of  distrust. 

For  whether  hatred  be  honest  or  dishonest,  it  never 
shrinks  from  any  accusation.  Sometimes  it  even  pro- 
ceeds to  crime.  The  usher  assured  me  that  several 
warnings  had  been  given  the  minister  which  had  made 
him  fear  the  vengeance  of  an  assassin,  and  that  he  no 
longer  ventured  out  on  foot. 

Then,  from  one  thing  to  another,  I  learned  what 
temptations  came  in  to  mislead  or  overcome  his  judg- 
ment ;  how  he  found  himself  fatally  led  into  obliquities 
which  he  could  not  but  deplore.  Misled  by  passion, 
over-persuaded  by  entreaties,  or  compelled  for  reputa- 
tion's sake,  he  has  many  times  held  the  balance  with  an 
unsteady  hand.  How  sad  the  condition  of  him  who  is  in 
authority  !  Not  only  are  the  miseries  of  power  imposed 
upon  him,  but  its  vices  also,  which,  not  content  with 
torturing,  succeed  in  corrupting  him. 

We  prolonged  our  conversation  till  it  was  interrupted 
by  the  minister's  return.  He  threw  himself  out  of  the 
carriage  with  a  handful  of  papers,  and  with  an  anxious 
manner  went  into  his  own  room.  An  instant  afterwards 
his  bell  was  heard  ;  his  secretary  was  called  to  send  off 
notices  to  all  those  invited  for  the  evening ;  the  ball 
would  not  take  place  ;  they  spoke  mysteriously  of  bad 
news  transmitted  by  the  telegraph,  and  in  such  cir- 
cumstances an  entertainment  would  seem  to  insult  the 
public  sorrow. 

I  took  leave  of  my  friend,  and  here  I  am  at  home. 
What  I  have  just  seen  is  an  answer  to  my  doubts  the 


g6  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

other  day.     Now  I  know  with  what  pangs  men  pay  for 
their  dignities  ;  I  now  understand 

"  That  Fortune  sells  what  we  believe  she  gives." 

This  explains  to  me  why  Charles  V.  aspired  to  the 
repose  of  the  cloister. 

And  yet  I  have  only  glanced  at  some  of  the  suffer- 
ings attached  to  power.  What  shall  I  say  of  the  falls  in 
which  its  possessors  are  precipitated  from  the  heights  of 
heaven  to  the  very  depths  of  the  earth  ?  of  that  path  of 
pain  along  which  they  must  forever  bear  the  burden 
of  their  responsibility?  of  that  chain  of  decorums  and 
ennuis  which  encompasses  every  act  of  their  lives,  and 
leaves  them  so  little  liberty  ? 

The  partisans  of  despotism  adhere  with  reason  to 
forms  and  ceremonies.  If  men  wish  to  give  unlimited 
power  to  their  fellow  man,  they  must  keep  him  sepa- 
rated from  ordinary  humanity  ;  they  must  surround  him 
with  a  continual  worship,  and,  by  a  constant  ceremonial, 
keep  up  for  him  the  superhuman  part  they  have  granted 
him.  Our  masters  cannot  remain  absolute,  but  on  con- 
dition of  being  treated  as  idols. 

But,  after  all,  these  idols  are  men,  and,  if  the  exclu- 
sive life  they  must  lead  is  an  insult  to  the  dignity  of 
others,  it  is  also  a  torment  to  themselves.  Every  one 
knows  the  law  of  the  Spanish  court,  which  used  to 
regulate,  hour  by  hour,  the  actions  of  the  king  and 
queen  ;  "  so  that,"  says  Voltaire,  "  by  reading  it  one 
can  tell  all  that  the  sovereigns  of  Spain  have  done, 
or  will  do,  from  Philip  II.  to  the  day  of  judgment."     It 


PRICE    OF  POWER  AND   WORTH  OF  FAME.  gj 

was  by  this  law  that  Philip  III.,  when  sick,  was  obliged 
to  endure  such  an  excess  of  heat  that  he  died  in  conse- 
quence, because  the  Duke  of  Uzeda,  who  alone  had  the 
right  to  put  out  the  fire  in  the  royal  chamber,  happened 
to  be  absent. 

When  the  wife  of  Charles  II.  was  run  away  with  on 
a  spirited  horse,  she  was  about  to  perish  before  any  one 
dared  to  save  her,  because  etiquette  forbade  them  to 
touch  the  queen.  Two  young  officers  endangered  their 
lives  for  her  by  stopping  the  horse.  The  prayers  and 
tears  of  her  whom  they  had  just  snatched  from  death 
were  necessary  to  obtain  pardon  for  their  crime.  Every 
one  knows  the  anecdote  related  by  Madame  Campan  of 
Marie  Antoinette,  wife  of  Louis  XVI.  One  day,  being 
at  her  toilet,  when  the  shift  was  about  to  be  presented 
to  her  by  one  of  the  assistants,  a  lady  of  very  ancient 
family  entered  and  claimed  the  honour,  as  she  had  the 
right  by  etiquette  ;  but,  at  the  moment  she  was  going 
to  fulfil  her  duty,  a  lady  of  higher  rank  appeared,  and  in 
her  turn  took  the  garment  she  was  about  to  offer  to  the 
queen  ;  when  a  third  lady  of  still  higher  title  came  in 
her  turn,  and  was  followed  by  a  fourth,  who  was  no 
other  than  the  king's  sister.  The  shift  was  in  this  man- 
ner passed  from  hand  to  hand,  with  ceremonies,  courte- 
sies, and  compliments,  before  it  came  to  the  queen,  who, 
half  naked  and  quite  ashamed,  was  shivering  with  cold 
for  the  great  honour  of  etiquette. 

12///,  seven  o'clock  P.M. — On  coming  home  this  even- 
ing, I  saw,  standing  at  the  door  of  a  house,  an  old  man, 
whose    appearance    and    features   reminded   me    of    my 


q8  AN  ATTIC   PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

father.     There  was  the  same  beautiful  smile,  the  same 
deep  and  penetrating  eye,  the  same  noble  bearing  of  the 

head,  and  the  same  careless 
attitude. 

I  began  living  over  again 
the  first  years  of  my  life, 
and  recalling  to  myself  the 
conversations  of  that  guide 
whom  God  in  His  mercy 
had  given  me,  and  whom  in 
His  severity  He  had  too 
soon  withdrawn. 

When  my  father  spoke, 
it  was  not  only  to  bring  our 
two  minds  together  by  an  interchange  of  thought,  but 
his  words  always  contained  instruction. 

Not  that  he  endeavoured  to  make  me  feel  it  so :  my 
father  feared  everything  that  had  the  appearance  of  a 
lesson.  He  used  to  say  that  virtue  could  make  herself 
devoted  friends,  but  she  did  not  take  pupils  :  therefore 
he  was  not  anxious  to  teach  goodness  ;  he  contented 
himself  with  sowing  the  seeds  of  it,  certain  that  expe- 
rience would  make  them  grow. 

How  often  has  good  grain  fallen  thus  into  a  corner 
of  the  heart,  and,  when  it  has  been  long  forgotten,  all  at 
once  put  forth  the  blade  and  come  into  ear.  It  is  a 
treasure  laid  aside  in  a  time  of  ignorance,  and  we  do  not 
know  its  value  till  the  day  we  find  ourselves  in  need 
of  it. 

Among   the    stories   with    which    he    enlivened    our 


PRICE    OF  POWER   AND    WORTH   OF  FAME.  99 

walks  or  our  evenings,  there  is  one  which  now  returns 
to  my  memory,  doubtless  because  the  time  is  come  to 
derive  its  lesson  from  it. 

My  father,  who  was  apprenticed  at  the  age  of  twelve 
to  one  of  those  trading  collectors  who  call  themselves 
naturalists,  because  they  put  all  creation  under  glasses, 
that  they  may  sell  it  by  retail,  had  always  led  a  life  of 
poverty  and  labour.  Obliged  to  rise  before  daybreak,  by 
turns  shop-boy,  clerk,  and  labourer,  he  was  made  to  bear 
alone  all  the  work  of  a  trade,  of  which  his  master  reaped 
all  the  profits.  In  truth,  this  latter  had  a  peculiar  talent 
for  making  the  most  of  the  labour  of  other  people. 
Though  unfit  himself  for  the  execution  of  any  kind  of 
work,  no  one  knew  better  how  to  sell  it.  His  words 
were  a  net,  in  which  people  found  themselves  taken  be- 
fore they  were  aware.  And  since  he  was  devoted  to 
himself  alone,  and  looked  on  the  producer  as  his  enemy, 
and  the  buyer  as  his  prey,  he  used  them  both  up  with 
that  obstinate  perseverance  which  avarice  teaches. 

My  father  was  a  slave  all  the  week,  and  could  only 
call  himself  his  own  on  Sunday.  The  master  naturalist, 
who  used  to  spend  the  day  at  the  house  of  an  old  female 
relation,  then  gave  him  his  liberty  on  condition  that  he 
dined  out,  and  at  his  own  expense.  But  my  father  used 
secretly  to  take  with  him  a  crust  of  bread,  which  he  hid  in 
his  botanizing  box,  and,  leaving  Paris  as  soon  as  it  was 
day,  he  would  wander  far  into  the  valley  of  Montmo- 
rency, the  wood  of  Meudon,  or  among  the  windings  of 
the  Marne.  Excited  by  the  fresh  air,  the  penetrating 
perfume  of  the  growing  vegetation,  or  the  fragrance  of 


IOO  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

the  honeysuckles,  he  would  walk  on  until  hunger  or 
fatigue  made  itself  felt.  Then  he  would  sit  under  a 
hedge,  or  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  and  would  make  a 
rustic  feast,  by  turns  on  water-cresses,  wood  strawber- 
ries, and  blackberries  picked  from  the  hedges  ;  he  would 
gather  a  few  plants,  read  a  few  pages  of  Florian,  then  in 
greatest  vogue,  of  Gessner,  who  was  just  translated,  or 
of  Jean  Jacques,  of  whom  he  possessed  three  odd  vol- 
umes. The  day  was  thus  passed  alternately  in  activity 
and  rest,  in  pursuit  and  meditation,  until  the  declining 
sun  warned  him  to  take  again  the  road  to  Paris,  where 
he  would  arrive,  his  feet  torn  and  dusty,  but  his  mind 
invigorated  for  a  whole  week. 

One  day,  as  he  was  going  toward  the  wood  of 
Viroflay,  he  met,  close  to  it,  a  stranger  who  was  occu- 
pied in  botanizing  and  in  sorting  the  plants  he  had  just 
gathered.  He  was  an  oldish  man  with  an  honest  face  ; 
but  his  eyes,  which  were  rather  deep  set  under  his  eye- 
brows, had  a  somewhat  uneasy  and  timid  expression. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  brown  cloth  coat,  a  grey  waistcoat, 
black  breeches,  and  worsted  stockings,  and  held  an 
ivory-headed  cane  under  his  arm.  His  appearance 
was  that  of  a  small  retired  tradesman  who  was  living 
on  his  means,  and  rather  below  the  golden  mean  of 
Horace. 

My  father,  who  had  great  respect  for  age,  civilly 
raised  his  hat  to  him  as  he  passed.  In  doing  so,  a  plant 
he  held  fell  from  his  hand ;  the  stranger  stooped  to  take 
it  up,  and  recognised  it. 

"  It  is  a  Dentaria  hcptapJiyllos"  said  he  ;  "I  have  not 


PRICE    OF  POWER   AND    WORTH   OF  FAME. 


IOI 


yet  seen  any  of  them  in  these  woods ;  did  you  find  it 
near  here,  sir?" 

My  father  replied  that  it  was  to  be  found  in  abun- 
dance on    the    top   of   the 
hill,  toward  Sevres,  as  well 
as  the  great  Laserpitium. 

"  That,  too  !  "  repeated 
the  old  man  more  briskly. 
"Ah!  I  shall  go  and  look 
for  them  ;  I  have  gathered 
them  formerly  on  the  hill- 
side of  Robaila." 

My  father  proposed  to 
take  him.  The  stranger 
accepted  his  proposal  with 
thanks,  and  hastened  to 
collect  together  the  plants 
he  had  gathered  ;  but  all 
of  a  sudden  he  appeared 
seized  with  a  scruple.  He 
observed  to  his  companion 

that  the  road  he  was  going  was  half-way  up  the  hill, 
and  led  in  the  direction  of  the  castle  of  the  Dames 
Royales  at  Bellevue ;  that  by  going  to  the  top  he 
would  consequently  turn  out  of  his  road,  and  that  it 
was  not  right  he  should  take  this  trouble  for  a  stranger. 

My  father  insisted  upon  it  with  his  habitual  good 
nature  ;  but,  the  more  eagerness  he  showed,  the  more 
obstinately  the  old  man  refused  ;  it  even  seemed  to  my 
father  that  his   srood   intention  at  last    excited   his  sus- 


102 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


picion.  He  therefore  contented  himself  with  pointing 
out  the  road  to  the  stranger,  whom  he  saluted,  and  he 
soon  lost  sight  of  him. 

Many  hours  passed  by,  and  he  thought  no  more  of 
the  meeting.  He  had  reached  the  copses  of  Chaville, 
where,  stretched  on  the  ground  in  a  mossy  glade,  he 
read  once  more  the  last  volume  of  "  Emile."  The  de- 
light of  reading  it  had  so  completely  absorbed  him,  that 
he  had  ceased  to  see  or  hear  anything  around  him. 
With  his  cheeks  flushed  and  his  eyes  moist,  he  repeated 
aloud  a  passage  which  had  particularly  affected  him. 

An  exclamation  uttered  close  by  him  awoke  him 
from  his  ecstasy  ;  he  raised  his  head,  and  perceived  the 
tradesman-looking  person  he  had  met  before  on  the 
cross-road  at  Viroflay. 

.  He  was  loaded  with  plants,  the   collection  of  which 
seemed  to  have  put  him  into  high  good  humour. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  sir,"  said  he  to  my  father.  "  I 
have  found  all  that  you  told  me  of,  and  I  am  indebted 
to  you  for  a  charming  walk." 

My  father  respectfully  rose,  and  made  a  civil  reply. 
The  stranger  had  grown  quite  familiar,  and  even  asked 
if  his  young  brotlicr  botanist  did  not  think  of  returning  to 
Paris.  My  father  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  opened 
his  tin  box  to  put  his  book  back  in  it. 

The  stranger  asked  him  with  a  smile  if  he  might 
without  impertinence  ask  the  name  of  it.  My  father 
answered  that  it  was  Rousseau's  "  Emile." 

The  stranger  immediately  became  grave. 

They  walked  for  some  time  side  by  side,  my  father 


PRICE   OF  POWER  AND   WORTH  OF  FAME.  lo? 

expressing,  with  the  warmth  of  a  heart  still  throbbing 
with  emotion,  all  that  this  work  had  made  him  feel ;  his 
companion  remaining  cold  and  silent.  The  former  ex- 
tolled the  glory  of  the  great  Genevese  writer,  whose 
genius  had  made  him  a  citizen  of  the  world  ;  he  expa- 
tiated on  this  privilege  of  great  thinkers,  who  reign  in 
spite  of  time  and  space,  and  gather  together  a  people  of 
willing  subjects  out  of  all  nations ;  but  the  stranger  sud- 
denly interrupted  him  : 

"And  how  do  you  know,"  said  he  mildly,  "  whether 
Jean  Jacques  would  not  exchange  the  reputation  which 
you  seem  to  envy  for  the  life  of  one  of  the  wood-cut- 
ters whose  chimney's  smoke  we  see  ?  What  has  fame 
brought  him  except  persecution  ?  The  unknown  friends 
whom  his  books  may  have  made  for  him  content  them- 
selves with  blessing  him  in  their  hearts,  while  the  de- 
clared enemies  that  they  have  drawn  upon  him  pursue 
him  with  violence  and  calumny !  His  pride  has  been 
flattered  by  success:  how  many  times  has  it  been 
wounded  by  satire  ?  And  be  assured  that  human  pride 
is  like  the  Sybarite,  who  was  prevented  from  sleeping 
by  a  crease  in  a  rose-leaf.  The  activity  of  a  vigourous 
mind,  by  which  the  world  profits,  almost  always  turns 
against  him  who  possesses  it.  He  expects  more  from  it 
as  he  grows  older;  the  ideal  he  pursues  continually  dis- 
gusts him  with  the  actual  ;  he  is  like  a  man  who,  with  a 
too-refined  sight,  discerns  spots  and  blemishes  in  the 
most  beautiful  face.  I  will  not  speak  of  stronger  temp- 
tations and  of  deeper  downfalls.  Genius,  you  have  said, 
is  a  kingdom  ;  but  what  virtuous  man  is  not  afraid  of 


104 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


being  a  king  ?  He  who  feels  only  his  great  powers,  is — 
with  the  weaknesses  and  passions  of  our  nature — prepar- 
ing for  great  failures.  Believe  me,  sir,  the  unhappy 
man  who  wrote  this  book  is  no  object  of  admiration  or 
of  envy  ;  but,  if  you  have  a  feeling  heart,  pity  him  !  " 

My  father,  astonished  at  the  excitement  with  which 
his  companion  pronounced  these  last  words,  did  not 
know  what  to  answer. 

Just  then  they  reached  the  paved  road  which  led 
from  Meudon  castle  to  that  of  Versailles ;  a  carriage 
was  passing. 

The  ladies  who  were  in  it  perceived  the  old  man, 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  leaning  out  of 
the  window  repeated  : 

"  There  is  Jean  Jacques — there  is  Rousseau  !  " 

Then  the  carriage  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

My  father  remained  motionless,  confounded  and 
amazed,  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  his  hands  clasped. 

Rousseau,  who  had  shuddered  on  hearing  his  name 
spoken,  turned  toward  him  : 

"You  see,"  said  he,  with  the  bitter  misanthropy 
which  his  later  misfortunes  had  produced  in  him,  "Jean 
Jacques  cannot  even  hide  himself ;  he  is  an  object  of 
curiosity  to  some,  of  malignity  to  others,  and  to  all  he  is 
a  public  thing,  at  which  they  point  the  finger.  It  would 
signify  less  if  he  had  only  to  submit  to  the  impertinence 
of  the  idle  ;  but,  as  soon  as  a  man  has  had  the  misfortune 
to  make  himself  a  name,  he  becomes  public  property. 
Every  one  rakes  into  his  life,  relates  his  most  trivial 
actions,  and  insults  his  feelings ;  he  becomes  like  those 


PRICE   OF  POWER  AND   WORTH  OF  FAME. 


I05 


walls,  which  every  passer-by  may  deface  with  some 
abusive  writing.  Perhaps  you  will  say  that  I  have  my- 
self encouraged  this  curiosity  by  publishing  my  '  Mem- 
oirs.' But  the  world  forced  me  to  it.  They  looked 
into  my  house  through  the  blinds,  and  they  slandered 
me  ;  I  have  opened  the  doors  and  windows,  so  that  they 
should  at  least  know  me  such  as  I  am.  Adieu,  sir. 
Whenever  you  wish  to  know  the  worth  of  fame,  remem- 
ber that  you  have  seen  Rousseau." 

Nine  o  clock. — Ah  !  now  I  understand  my  father's 
story  !  It  contains  the  answer  to  one  of  the  questions  I 
asked  myself  a  week  ago.  Yes,  I  now  feel  that  fame  and 
power  are  gifts  that  are  dearly  bought;  and  that,  when 
they  dazzle  the  soul,  both  of  them  are  oftenest,  as  Ma- 
dame de  Stael  says,  but  "un  deuil  eclatant  de  bonheur  !  "  * 

*  ['Tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Henry  VIII.,  Act  II.,  Scene  3.] 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

MISANTHROPY  AND  REPENTANCE. 

August  3d,  nine  o'clock  P.  M.— 
There  are  days  when  every- 
thing appears  gloomy  to  us ; 
the  world  is,  like  the  sky,  covered  by  a  dark  fog. 
Nothing  seems  in  its  place ;  we  only  see  misery,  im- 
providence, and  cruelty ;  the  worlds  seems  without 
God,  and  given  up  to  all  the  evils  of  chance. 

Yesterday  I  was  in  this  unhappy  humour.  After  a 
long  walk  in  the  faubourgs,  I  returned  home,  sad  and 
dispirited. 

Everything  I  had  seen  seemed  to  accuse  the  civilisa- 
tion of  which  we  are  so  proud  !  I  had  wandered  into  a 
little  by  street,  with  which  I  was  not  acquainted,  and  I 
found  myself  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  those  dreadful 
abodes  where  the  poor  are  born,  languish,  and  die.  I 
looked  at  those  decaying  walls,  which  time  has  covered 
with  a  foul  leprosy  ;  those  windows,  from  which  dirty 
rags  hang  out  to  dry  ;  those  fetid  gutters,  which  coil 
along  the  fronts  of  the  houses  like  venomous  reptiles  ! 
I  felt  oppressed  with  grief,  and  hastened  on. 


MISANTHROPY  AND   REPENTANCE.  l0y 

A  little  further  on  I  was  stopped  by  the  hearse  of  a 
hospital ;  a  dead  man,  nailed  down  in  his  deal  coffin, 
was  going  to  his  last  abode,  without  funeral  pomp  or 
ceremony,  and  without  followers.  There  was  not  here 
even  that  last  friend  of  the  outcast — the  dog,  which  a 
painter  has  introduced  as  the  sole  attendant  at  the 
pauper's  burial !  He  whom  they  were  preparing  to 
commit  to  the  earth  was  going  to  the  tomb,  as  he  had 
lived,  alone ;  doubtless  no  one  would  be  aware  of  his 
end.  In  this  great  battle  of  society,  what  signifies  a 
soldier  the  less  ? 

But  what,  then,  is  this  human  society,  if  one  of  its 
members  can  thus  disappear  like  a  leaf  carried  away  by 
the  wind  ? 

The  hospital  was  near  a  barrack,  at  the  entrance  of 
which  old  men,  women,  and  children  were  quarrelling 
for  the  remains  of  the  coarse  bread  which  the  soldiers 
had  given  them  in  charity  !  Thus,  beings  like  ourselves 
daily  wait  in  destitution  on  our  compassion  till  we  give 
them  leave  to  live  !  Whole  troops  of  outcasts,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  trials  imposed  on  all  God's  children,  have 
to  endure  the  pangs  of  cold,  hunger,  and  humiliation. 
Unhappy  human  commonwealth  !  where  man  is  in  a 
worse  condition  than  the  bee  in  its  hive,  or  the  ant  in  its 
subterranean  city  ! 

Ah  !  what  then  avails  our  reason  ?  What  is  the  good 
of  so  many  high  faculties,  if  we  are  neither  the  wiser 
nor  the  happier  for  them  ?  Which  of  us  would  not  ex- 
change his  life  of  labour  and  trouble  with  that  of  the 
birds  of  the  air,  to  whom  the  whole  world  is  a  life  of  joy  ? 


IQ8  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

How  well  I  understand  the  complaint  of  Mao,  in  the 
popular  tales  of  the  "  Foyer  Breton,"  who,  when  dying 
of  hunger  and  thirst,  says,  as  he  looks  at  the  bull-finches 
rifling  the  fruit-trees  : 

"Alas  !  those  birds  are  happier  than  Christians ;  they 
have  no  need  of  inns,  or  butchers,  or  bakers,  or  gar- 
deners. God's  heaven  belongs  to  them,  and  earth 
spreads  a  continual  feast  before  them  !  The  tiny  flies 
are  their  game,  ripe  grass  their  corn-fields,  and  hips  and 
haws  their  store  of  fruit.  They  have  the  right  of  taking 
everywhere,  without  paying  or  asking  leave  :  thus  comes 
it  that  the  little  birds  are  happy,  and  sing  all  the  live- 
long day  ! " 

But  the  life  of  man  in  a  natural  state  is  like  that  of 
the  birds;  he  equally  enjoys  nature.  "The  earth 
spreads  a  continual  feast  before  him."  What,  then, 
has  he  gained  by  that  selfish  and  imperfect  association 
which  forms  a  nation  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  for 
every  one  to  return  again  to  the  fertile  bosom  of 
Nature,  and  live  there  upon  her  bounty  in  peace  and 
liberty  ? 

August  ioth,  four  d clock  A.  M. — The  dawn  casts  a  red 
glow  on  my  bed-curtains ;  the  breeze  brings  in  the 
fragrance  of  the  gardens  below.  Here  I  am  again 
leaning  on  my  elbows  by  the  window,  inhaling  the 
freshness  and  gladness  of  this  first  wakening  of  the 
day. 

My  eye  always  passes  over  the  roofs  filled  with 
flowers,  warbling,  and  sunlight,  with  the  same  pleasure ; 
but   to-day    it   stops   at   the    end    of   a   buttress    which 


MISANTHROPY  AND  REPENTANCE.  lQg 

separates  our  house  from  the  next.  The  storms  have 
stripped  the  top  of  its  plaster  covering,  and  dust  carried 
by  the  wind  has  collected  in  the  crevices,  and,  being 
fixed  there  by  the  rain,  has  formed  a  sort  of  aerial  ter- 
race, where  some  green  grass  has  sprung  up.  Among 
it  rises  a  stalk  of  wheat,  which  to-day  is  surmounted 
by  a  sickly  ear  that  droops  its  yellow  head. 

This  poor  stray  crop  on  the  roofs,  the  harvest  of 
which  will  fall  to  the  neighbouring  sparrows,  has  car- 
ried my  thoughts  to  the  rich  crops  which  are  now 
falling  beneath  the  sickle  ;  it  has  recalled  to  me  the 
beautiful  walks  I  took  as  a  child  through  my  native 
province,  when  the  threshing-floors  at  the  farm-houses 
resounded  from  every  part  with  the  sound  of  the  flail, 
and  when  the  carts,  loaded  with  golden  sheaves,  came 
in  by  all  the  roads.  I  still  remember  the  songs  of  the 
maidens,  the  cheerfulness  of  the  old  men,  the  open- 
hearted  merriment  of  the  labourers.  There  was,  at 
that  time,  something  in  their  looks  both  of  pride  and 
feeling.  The  latter  came  from  thankfulness  to  God, 
the  former  from  the  sight  of  the  harvest,  the  reward 
of  their  labour.  They  felt  indistinctly  the  grandeur  and 
the  holiness  of  their  part  in  the  general  work  of  the 
world  ;  they  looked  with  pride  upon  their  mountains  of 
corn  sheaves,  and  they  seemed  to  say,  Next  to  God,  it  is 
we  who  feed  the  world  ! 

What  a  wonderful  order  there  is  in  all  human  labour  ! 
While  the  husbandman  furrows  his  land,  and  prepares 
for  every  one  his  daily  bread,  the  town  artisan,  far 
away,   weaves  the  stuff  in   which  he  is  to  be  clothed  ; 


HO  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

the  miner  seeks  under  ground  the  iron  for  his  plough ; 
the  soldier  defends  him  against  the  invader ;  the  judge 
takes  care  that  the  law  protects  his  fields ;  the  tax- 
comptroller  adjusts  his  private  interests  with  those  of 
the  public  ;  the  merchant  occupies  himself  in  exchang- 
ing his  products  with  those  of  distant  countries ;  the 
men  of  science  and  of  art  add  every  day  a  few  horses 
to  this  ideal  team,  which  draws  along  the  material 
world,  as  steam  impels  the  gigantic  trains  of  our  iron 
roads  !  Thus  all  unite  together,  all  help  one  another  ; 
the  toil  of  each  one  benefits  himself  and  all  the  world  ; 
the  work  has  been  apportioned  among  the  different 
members  of  the  whole  of  society  by  a  tacit  agreement. 
If,  in  this  apportionment,  errors  are  committed,  if  cer- 
tain individuals  have  not  been  employed  according  to 
their  capacities,  these  defects  of  detail  diminish  in  the 
sublime  conception  of  the  whole.  The  poorest  man 
included  in  this  association  has  his  place,  his  work, 
his  reason  for  being  there  ;  each  is  something  in  the 
whole. 

There  is  nothing  like  this  for  man  in  the  state  of 
nature.  As  he  depends  only  upon  himself,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  he  be  sufficient  for  everything.  All  creation 
is  his  property  ;  but  he  finds  in  it  as  many  hindrances 
as  helps.  He  must  surmount  these  obstacles  with  the 
single  strength  that  God  has  given  him  ;  he  cannot 
reckon  on  any  other  aid  than  chance  and  opportunity. 
No  one  reaps,  manufactures,  fights,  or  thinks  for  him; 
he  is  nothing  to  any  one.  He  is  a  unit  multiplied  by 
the    cipher  of    his  own  single  powers  ;  while  the  civil- 


MISANTHROPY  AND  REPENTANCE.  m 

ized  man  is  a  unit  multiplied  by  the  powers  of  the  whole 
of  society. 

Yet  notwithstanding  this,  the  other  day,  disgusted 
by  the  sight  of  some  vices  in  detail,  I  cursed  the  latter, 
and  almost  envied  the  life  of  the  savage.     V 

One  of  the  infirmities  of  our  nature  is  always  to  mis- 
take feeling  for  evidence,  and  to  judge  of  the  season  by 
a  cloud  or  a  ray  of  sunshine. 

Was  the  misery,  the  sight  of  which  made  me  regret 
a  savage  life,  really  the  effect  of  civilization  ?  Must 
we  accuse  society  of  having  created  these  evils,  or  ac- 
knowledge, on  the  contrary,  that  it  has  alleviated 
them  ?  Could  the  women  and  children  who  were  re- 
ceiving the  coarse  bread  from  the  soldier  hope  in  the 
desert  for  more  help  or  pity  ?  That  dead  man,  whose 
forsaken  state  I  had  deplored,  had  he  not  found,  by  the 
cares  of  a  hospital,  a  coffin  and  the  humble  grave  where 
he  was  about  to  rest?  Alone,  and  far  from  men,  he 
would  have  died  like  the  wild  beast  in  his  den,  and 
would  now  be  serving  as  food  for  vultures!  These 
benefits  of  human  society  are  shared,  then,  by  the  most 
destitute.  Whoever  eats  the  bread  that  another  has 
reaped  and  kneaded,  is  under  an  obligation  to  his 
brother,  and  cannot  say  he  owes  him  nothing  in  return. 
The  poorest  of  us  has  received  from  society  much  more 
than  his  own  single  strength  would  have  permitted  him 
to  wrest  from  nature. 

But  cannot  society  give  us  more?  Who  doubts  it? 
Errors  have  been  committed  in  this  distribution  of  tasks 
and  workers.     Time  will  diminish  the  number  of  them  ; 


H2  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

with  new  lights  a  better  division  will  arise  ;  the  elements 
of  society  go  on  toward  perfection,  like  everything  else. 
The  difficulty  is  to  know  how  to  adapt  ourselves  to  the 
slow  step  of  time,  whose  progress  can  never  be  forced 
on  without  danger. 

August  1 4-th,  six  o'clock  a.  M. — My  garret  window  rises 
upon  the  roof  like  a  massive  watch-tower.  The  corners 
are  covered  by  large  sheets  of  lead,  which  run  into  the 
tiles  ;  the  successive  action  of  cold  and  heat  has  made 
them  rise,  and  so  a  crevice  has  been  formed  in  an 
angle  on  the  right  side.  There  a  sparrow  has  built  her 
nest. 

I  have  followed  the  progress  of  this  aerial  habitation 
from  the  first  day.  I  have  seen  the  bird  successively 
bring  the  straw,  moss,  and  wool  designed  for  the  con- 
struction of  her  abode  ;  and  I  have  admired  the  perse- 
vering skill  she  expended  in  this  difficult  work.  At  first, 
my  new  neighbour  spent  her  days  in  fluttering  over  the 
poplar  in  the  garden,  and  in  chirping  along  the  gutters; 
a  fine  lady's  life  seemed  the  only  one  to  suit  her.  Then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  the  necessity  of  preparing  a  shelter 
for  her  brood  transformed  our  idler  into  a  worker ; 
she  no  longer  gave  herself  either  rest  or  relaxation. 
I  saw  her  always  either  flying,  fetching,  or  carrying ; 
neither  rain  nor  sun  stopped  her.  A  striking  example 
of  the  power  of  necessity !  We  are  not  only  indebted 
to  it  for  most  of  our  talents,  but  for  many  of  our 
virtues  ! 

Is  it  not  necessity  which  has  given  the  people  of 
less  favoured  climates  that  constant  activity  which  has 


MISANTHROPY  AND   REPENTANCE.  \\-i 

placed  them  so  quickly  at  the  head  of  nations  ?  As  they 
are  deprived  of  most  of  the  gifts  of  nature,  they  have 
supplied  them  by  their  industry  ;  necessity  has  sharp- 
ened their  understanding,  endurance  awakened  their 
foresight.  While  elsewhere  man,  warmed  by  an  ever 
brilliant  sun,  and  loaded  with  the  bounties  of  the  earth, 
was  remaining  poor,  ignorant,  and  naked,  in  the  midst 
of  gifts  he  did  not  attempt  to  explore,  here  he  was 
forced  by  necessity  to  wrest  his  food  from  the  ground, 
to  build  habitations  to  defend  himself  from  the  intemper- 
ance of  the  weather,  and  to  warm  his  body  by  clothing 
himself  with  the  wool  of  animals.  Work  makes  him  both 
more  intelligent  and  more  robust :  disciplined  by  it,  he 
seems  to  mount  higher  on  the  ladder  of  creation,  while 
those  more  favored  by  nature  remain  on  the  step  the 
nearest  to  the  brutes. 

I  made  these  reflections  while  looking  at  the  bird, 
whose  instinct  seemed  to  have  become  more  acute  since 
she  had  been  occupied  in  work.  At  last  the  nest  was 
finished  ;  she  set  up  her  household  there,  and  I  followed 
her  through  all  the  phases  of  her  new  existence. 

When  she  had  sat  on  the  eggs,  and  the  young  ones 
were  hatched,  she  fed  them  with  the  most  attentive 
care.  The  corner  of  my  window  had  become  a  stage  of 
moral  action,  which  fathers  and  mothers  might  come  to 
take  lessons  from.  The  little  ones  soon  became  great, 
and  this  morning  I  have  seen  them  take  their  first  flight. 
One  of  them,  weaker  than  the  others,  was  not  able  to 
clear  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  fell  into  the  gutter.  I 
caught  him  with  some  difficulty,  and   placed   him  again 


ii4 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


on  the  tile  in  front  of  his  house,  but  the  mother  has  not 
noticed  him.  Once  freed  from  the  cares  of  a  family, 
she  has  resumed  her  wandering  life  among  the  trees  and 
along  the  roofs.  In  vain  I  have  kept  away  from  my 
window,  to  take  from  her  every  excuse  for  fear ;  in 
vain  the  feeble  little  bird  has  called  to  her  with  plaint- 
ive cries ;  his  bad  mother  has  passed  by  singing  and 
fluttering  with  a  thousand  airs  and  graces.  Once 
only  the  father  came  near ;  he  looked  at  his  off- 
spring with  contempt,  and  then  disappeared  never  to 
return ! 

I  crumbled  some  bread  before  the  little  orphan,  but 
he  did  not  know  how  to  peck  it  with  his  bill.  I  tried  to 
catch  him,  but  he  escaped  into  the  forsaken  nest.  What 
will  become  of  him  there,  if  his  mother  does  not  come 
back  ! 

August  15th,  six  d clock. — This  morning,  on  opening 
my  window,  I  found  the  little  bird  dying  upon  the 
tiles  ;  his  wounds  showed  me  that  he  had  been  driven 
from  the  nest  by  his  unworthy  mother.  I  tried  in  vain 
to  warm  him  again  with  my  breath  ;  I  felt  the  last  pul- 
sations of  life;  his  eyes  were  already  closed,  and  his 
wings  hung  down  !  I  placed  him  on  the  roof  in  a  ray 
of  sunshine,  and  I  closed  my  window.  The  struggle  of 
life  against  death  has  always  something  gloomy  in  it :  it 
is  a  warning  to  us. 

Happily  I  hear  some  one  in  the  passage ;  without 
doubt,  it  is  my  old  neighbor;  his  conversation  will  dis- 
tract my  thoughts. 


MISANTHROPY  AND   REPENTANCE.  jjr 

It  was  my  portress.  Excellent  woman  !  She  wished 
me  to  read  a  letter  from  her  son  the  sailor,  and  begged 
me  to  answer  it  for  her. 

I  kept  it,  to  copy  it  in  my  journal.     Here  it  is : 

"  Dear  Mother  :  This  is  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  very  well  ever  since  the  last  time,  except  that  last 
week  I  was  nearly  drowned  with  the  boat,  which  would 
have  been  a  great  loss,  as  there  is  not  a  better  craft  any- 
where. 

"A  gust  of  wind  capsized  us;  and  just  as  I  came 
up  above  water,  I  saw  the  captain  sinking.  I  went 
after  him,  as  was  my  duty,  and,  after  diving  three 
times,  I  brought  him  to  the  surface,  which  pleased 
him  much  ;  for  when  we  were  hoisted  on  board,  and 
he  had  recovered  his  senses,  he  threw  his  arms 
round  my  neck,  as  he  would  have  done  to  an  of- 
ficer. 

"  I  do  not  hide  from  you,  dear  mother,  that  this  has 
delighted  me.  But  it  isn't  all ;  it  seems  that  fishing  up 
the  captain  has  reminded  them  that  1  had  a  good  char- 
acter, and  they  have  just  told  me  that  I  am  promoted 
to  be  a  sailor  of  the  first  class!  Directly  I  knew  it  I 
cried  out,  '  My  mother  shall  have  coffee  twice  a  day  ! ' 
And  really,  dear  mother,  there  is  nothing  now  to 
hinder  you,  as  I  shall  now  have  a  larger  allowance  to 
send  you. 

"  I  conclude  by  begging  you  to  take  care  of 
yourself    if    you    wish    to    do    me    good ;    for    nothing 


n6  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

makes  me  feel  so  well  as  to  think  that  you  want  for 
nothing. 

"  Your  son,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

"  Jacques." 

This  is  the  answer  that  the  portress  dictated  to  me  : 

"  My  good  Jacquot  :  It  makes  me  very  happy  to 
see  that  your  heart  is  still  as  true  as  ever,  and  that  you 
will  never  shame  those  who  have  brought  you  up.  I 
need  not  tell  you  to  take  care  of  your  life,  because  you 
know  it  is  the  same  as  my  own,  and  that  without  you, 
dear  child,  I  should  wish  for  nothing  but  the  grave  ;  but 
we  are  not  bound  to  live,  while  we  are  bound  to  do  our 
duty. 

"Do  not  fear  for  my  health,  good  Jacques;  I  was 
never  better !  I  do  not  grow  old  at  all,  for  fear  of 
making  you  unhappy.  I  want  nothing,  and  I  live  like 
a  lady.  I  even  had  some  money  over  this  year,  and 
as  my  drawers  shut  very  badly,  I  put  it  into  the  sav- 
ings bank,  where  I  have  opened  an  account  in  your 
name.  So,  when  you  come  back,  you  will  find  your- 
self with  an  income.  1  have  also  furnished  your  chest 
with  new  linen,  and  I  have  knitted  you  three  new  sea 
jackets. 

"  All  your  friends  are  well.  Your  cousin  is  just 
dead,  leaving  his  widow  in  difficulties.  I  gave  her 
your  thirty  francs  remittance,  and  said  that  you  had 
sent  it  her ;  and  the  poor  woman  remembers  you  day 
and  night  in  her  prayers.     So,  you  see,  I  have  put  that 


MISANTHROPY  AND  REPENTANCE. 


117 


money  in  another  sort  of  savings  bank ;  but  there  it  is 
our  hearts  which  get  the  interest. 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Jacquot.  Write  to  me  often,  and 
always  remember  the  good  God,  and  your  old  mother, 

"  Phrosine  Millot." 

Good  son,  and  worthy  mother !  how  such  examples 
bring  us  back  to  a  love  for  the  human  race!  In  a  fit 
of  fanciful  misanthropy,  we  may  envy  the  fate  of  the 
savage,  and  prefer  that  of  the  bird  to  such  as  he ;  but 
impartial  observation  soon  does  justice  to  such  para- 
doxes. We  find,  on  examination,  that  in  the  mixed 
good  and  evil  of  human  nature,  the  good  so  far  abounds 
that  we  are  not  in  the  habit  of  noticing  it,  while  the 
evil  strikes  us  precisely  on  account  of  its  being  the 
exception.  If  nothing  is  perfect,  nothing  is  so  bad  as 
to  be  without  its  compensation  or  its  remedy.  What 
spiritual  riches  are  there  in  the  midst  of  the  evils  of 
society  !  how  much  does  the  moral  world  redeem  the 
material ! 

That  which  will  ever  distinguish  man  from  the  rest 
of  creation  is  his  power  of  deliberate  affection  and  of 
enduring  self-sacrifice.  The  mother  who  took  care  of 
her  brood  in  the  corner  of  my  window  devoted  to  them 
the  necessary  time  for  accomplishing  the  laws  which 
insure  the  preservation  of  her  kind  ;  but  she  obeyed  an 
instinct,  and  not  a  rational  choice.  When  she  had  ac- 
complished the  mission  appointed  her  by  Providence, 
she  cast  off  the  duty  as  we  get  rid  of  a  burden,  and 
she    returned    again  to  her  selfish  liberty.      The   other 


u8 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


mother,  on  the  contrary,  will  go  on  with  her  task  as 
lonsr  as  God  shall  leave  her  here  below :  the  life  of 
her  son  will  still  remain,  so  to  speak,  joined  to  her 
own ;  and  when  she  disappears  from  the  earth  she  will 
leave  there  that  part  of  herself. 

Thus,  the  affections  make  for  our  species  an  exist- 
ence separate  from  all  the  rest  of  creation.  Thanks  to 
them,  we  enjoy  a  sort  of  terrestrial  immortality ;  and 
if  other  beings  succeed  one  another,  man  alone  perpetu- 
ates himself. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE  FAMILY  OF 
MICHAEL   AROUT. 


September  15th,  eight  o'clock. — This  morning,  while  I 
was  arranging  my  books,  Mother  Genevieve  came  in, 
and  brought  me  the  basket  of  fruit  1  buy  of  her  every 
Sunday.  For  nearly  twenty  years  that  I  have  lived  in 
this  quarter  I  have  dealt  in  her  little  fruit-shop.  Per- 
haps I  should  be  better  served  elsewhere,  but  Mother 
Genevieve  has  but  little  custom  ;  to  leave  her  would  do 
her  harm,  and  cause  her  unnecessary  pain.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  has  made  me 
incur  a  sort  of  tacit  obligation  to  her ;  my  patronage 
has  become  her  property. 

She  has  put  the  basket  upon  my  table,  and  as  I 
wanted  her  husband,  who  is  a  joiner,  to  add  some 
shelves  to  my  bookcase,  she  has  gone  down  stairs  again 
immediately  to  send  him  to  me. 

At  first  I  did  not  notice  either  her  looks  or  the 
sound    of    her    voice :    but,  now  that    I    recall  them,  it 


120  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

seems  to  me  that  she  was  not  as  jovial  as  usual. 
Can  Mother  Genevieve  be  in  trouble  about  any- 
thing ? 

Poor  woman !  All  her  best  years  were  subject  to 
such  bitter  trials,  that  she  might  think  she  had  received 
her  full  share  already.  Were  I  to  live  a  hundred  years 
I  should  never  forget  the  circumstances  which  first 
made  her  known  to  me,  and  which  obtained  her  my 
respect. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  my  first  settling  in  the  fau- 
bourg. I  had  noticed  her  empty  fruit-shop,  which  no- 
body came  into,  and,  being  attracted  by  its  forsaken 
appearance,  I  made  my  little  purchases  in  it.  I  have 
always  instinctively  preferred  the  poor  shops ;  there  is 
less  choice  in  them,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  pur- 
chase is  a  sign  of  sympathy  with  a  brother  in  poverty. 
These  little  dealings  are  almost  always  an  anchor  of 
hope  to  those  whose  very  existence  is  in  peril — the  only 
means  by  which  some  orphan  gains  a  livelihood.  There 
the  aim  of  the  tradesman  is  not  to  enrich  himself,  but 
to  live!  The  purchase  you  make  of  him  is  more  than 
an  exchange — it  is  a  good  action. 

Mother  Genevieve  at  that  time  was  still  young,  but 
had  already  lost  that  fresh  bloom  of  youth,  which  suf- 
fering causes  to  wither  so  soon  among  the  poor.  Her 
husband,  a  clever  joiner,  gradually  left  off  working  to 
become,  according  to  the  picturesque  expression  of  the 
workshops,  a  xvorsJiipper  of  Saint  Monday.  The  wages 
of  the  week,  which  was  always  reduced  to  two  or  three 
working  days,  were  completely  dedicated  by  him  to  the 


rX)&AKuia-fc2.-:-<^k. 


I  heard  a  sound  of  quarrelling  in  the  back  shop. 


THE   FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL   AROUT.  \2\ 

worship  of  this  god  of  the  Barriers,*  and  Genevieve 
was  obliged  herself  to  provide  for  all  the  wants  of  the 
household. 

One  evening,  when  I  went  to  make  some  trifling  pur- 
chases of  her,  I  heard  a  sound  of  quarrelling  in  the  back 
shop.  There  were  the  voices  of  several  women,  among 
which  I  distinguished  that  of  Genevieve,  broken  by 
sobs.  On  looking  further  in,  I  perceived  the  fruit- 
woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  kissing  it,  while  a 
country  nurse  seemed  to  be  claiming  her  wages  from 
her.  The  poor  woman,  who  without  doubt  had  ex- 
hausted every  explanation  and  every  excuse,  was  crying 
in  silence,  and  one  of  her  neighbours  was  trying  in  vain 
to  appease  the  countrywoman.  Excited  by  that  love  of 
money  which  the  evils  of  a  hard  peasant  life  but  too  well 
excuse,  and  disappointed  by  the  refusal  of  her  expected 
wages,  the  nurse  was  launching  forth  in  recriminations, 
threats,  and  abuse.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  listened  to  the 
quarrel,  not  daring  to  interfere,  and  not  thinking  of  going 
away,  when  Michael  Arout  appeared  at  the  shop-door. 

The  joiner  had  just  come  from  the  Barrier,  where 
he  had  passed  part  of  the  day  at  the  public  house.  His 
blouse,  without  a  belt,  and  untied  at  the  throat,  showed 
none  of  the  noble  stains  of  work:  in  his  hand  he  held 
his  cap,  which  he  had  just  picked  up  out  of  the  mud  ; 
his  hair  was  in  disorder,  his  eye  fixed,  and  the  pallor  of 
drunkenness  in  his  face.  He  came  reeling  in,  looked 
wildly  around  him,  and  called  Genevieve. 

*  The  cheap  wine-shops  are  outside  the  Barriers,  to  avoid  the  octroi,  or 
municipal  excise. 


I22  AN  ATTIC  rillLOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

She  heard  his  voice,  gave  a  start,  and  rushed  into 
the  shop ;  but  at  the  sight  of  the  miserable  man,  who 
was  trying  in  vain  to  steady  himself,  she  pressed  the 
child  in  her  arms,  and  bent  over  it  with  tears. 

The  countrywoman  and  the  neighbour  had  followed 
her. 

"  Come  !  come  !  do  you  intend  to  pay  me,  after  all?  " 
cried  the  former  in  a  rage. 

"  Ask  the  master  for  the  money,"  ironically  answered 
the  woman  from  the  next  door,  pointing  to  the  joiner, 
who  had  just  fallen  against  the  counter. 

The  countrywoman  looked  at  him. 

"  Ah  !  he  is  the  father,"  returned  she.  "  Well,  what 
idle  beggars  !  not  to  have  a  penny  to  pay  honest  people, 
and  get  tipsy  with  wine  in  that  way." 

The  drunkard  raised  his  head. 

"  What !  what !  "  stammered  he  ;  "  who  is  it  that 
talks  of  wine  ?  I've  had  nothing  but  brandy  !  But  I 
am  going  back  again  to  get  some  wine !  Wife,  give  me 
your  money ;  there  are  some  friends  waiting  for  me  at 
the  Perc  la  Tuille." 

Genevieve  did  not  answer :  he  went  round  the 
counter,  opened  the  till,  and  began  to  rummage  in  it. 

"  You  see  where  the  money  of  the  house  goes !  "  ob- 
served the  neighbour  to  the  countrywoman  ;  "  how  can 
the  poor  unhappy  woman  pay  you  when  he  takes  all?" 

"Is  that  my  fault?"  replied  the  nurse  angrily. 
"  They  owe  it  to  me,  and  somehow  or  other  they  must 
pay  me !  " 

And  letting  loose  her  tongue,  as  those  women  out  of 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  A  ROUT. 


123 


the  country  do,  she  began  relating  at  length  all  the  care 
she  had  taken  of  the  child,  and  all  the  expense  it  had 
been  to  her.  In  proportion  as  she  recalled  all  she  had 
done,  her  words  seemed  to  convince  her  more  than  ever 
of  her  rights,  and  to  increase  her  anger.  The  poor 
mother,  who  no  doubt  feared  that  her  violence  would 
frighten  the  child,  returned  into  the  back  shop,  and  put 
it  into  its  cradle. 

Whether  it  is  that  the  countrywoman  saw  in  this  act 
a  determination  to  escape  her  claims,  or  that  she  was 
blinded  by  passion,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  she  rushed  into 
the  next  room,  where  I  heard  the  sounds  of  quarrelling, 
with  which  the  cries  of  the  child  were  soon  mingled. 
The  joiner,  who  was  still  rummaging  in  the  till,  was 
startled,  and  raised  his  head. 

At  the  same  moment  Genevieve  appeared  at  the 
door,  holding  in  her  arms  the  baby  that  the  country- 
woman was  trying  to  tear  from  her.  She  ran  toward 
the  counter,  and  throwing  herself  behind  her  husband, 
cried  : 

"  Michael,  defend  your  son !  " 

The  drunken  man  quickly  stood  up  erect,  like  one 
who  awakes  with  a  start. 

"  My  son  !  "  stammered  he  ;  "  what  son  ?  " 

His  looks  fell  upon  the  child  ;  a  vague  ray  of  intelli- 
gence passed  over  his  features. 

"  Robert,"  resumed  he  ;  "  it  is  Robert!  " 

He  tried  to  steady  himself  on  his  feet,  that  he  might 
take  the  baby,  but  he  tottered.  The  nurse  approached 
him  in  a  rasfe. 


124 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


"  My  money,  or  I  shall  take  the  child  away  !  "  cried 
she.  "  It  is  I  who  have  fed  and  brought  it  up  :  if  you 
don't  pay  me  for  what  has  made  it  live,  it  ought  to  be 
the  same  to  you  as  if  it  were  dead.  I  shall  not  go  until 
I  have  my  due  or  the  baby." 

"  And  what  would  you  do  with  him  ?  "  murmured 
Genevieve,  pressing  Robert  against  her  bosom. 

"  Take  it  to  the  Foundling !  "  replied  the  coun- 
trywoman harshly;  "the  hospital  is  a  better  mother 
than  you  are,  for  it  pays  for  the  food  of  its  little 
ones." 

At  the  word  "  Foundling,"  Genevieve  had  exclaimed 
aloud  in  horror.  With  her  arms  wound  round  her  son, 
whose  head  she  hid  in  her  bosom,  and  her  two  hands 
spread  over  him,  she  had  retreated  to  the  wall,  and  re- 
mained with  her  back  against  it,  like  a  lioness  defending 
her  young  ones.  The  neighbour  and  I  contemplated 
this  scene,  without  knowing  how  we  could  interfere. 
As  for  Michael,  he  looked  at  us  by  turns,  making  a 
visible  effort  to  comprehend  it  all.  When  his  eye  rested 
upon  Genevieve  and  the  child,  it  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of 
pleasure ;  but  when  he  turned  toward  us,  he  again 
became  stupid  and  hesitating. 

At  last,  apparently  making  a  prodigious  effort,  he 
cried  out,  "  Wait !  " 

And,  going  to  a  tub  full  of  water,  he  plunged  his 
face  into  it  several  times. 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  him  ;  the  countrywoman 
herself  seemed  astonished.  At  length  he  raised  his 
dripping  head.     This  ablution  had  partly  dispelled  his 


THE   FAMILY   OF  MICHAEL   AROUT.  \2^ 

drunkenness  ;  he  looked  at  us  for  a  moment,  then  he 
turned  to  Genevieve,  and  his  face  brightened  up. 

"  Robert ! "  cried  he,  going  up  to  the  child,  and 
taking  him  in  his  arms.  "Ah !  give  him  me,  wife  ;  I 
must  look  at  him." 

The  mother  seemed  to  give  up  his  son  to  him  with 
reluctance,  and  stayed  before  him  with  her  arms  ex- 
tended, as  if  she  feared  the  child  would  have  a  fall. 
The  nurse  began  again  in  her  turn  to  speak,  and  re- 
newed her  claims,  this  time  threatening  to  appeal  to  law. 
At  first  Michael  listened  to  her  attentively,  and  when  he 
comprehended  her  meaning,  he  gave  the  child  back  to 
its  mother. 

"  How  much  do  we  owe  you?  "  asked  he. 

The  countrywoman  began  to  reckon  up  the  different 
expenses,  which  amounted  to  nearly  thirty  francs.  The 
joiner  felt  to  the  bottom  of  his  pockets,  but  could  find 
nothing.  His  forehead  became  contracted  by  frowns ; 
low  curses  began  to  escape  him.  All  of  a  sudden  he 
rummaged  in  his  breast,  drew  forth  a  large  watch,  and 
holding  it  up  above  his  head — 

"  Here  it  is — here's  your  money  !  "  cried  he  with  a 
joyful  laugh  ;  "  a  watch,  number  one  !  I  always  said  it 
would  keep  for  a  drink  on  a  dry  day  ;  but  it  is  not  I 
who  will  drink  it,  but  the  young  one.  Ah  !  ah  !  ah ! 
go  and  sell  it  for  me,  neighbour,  and  if  that  is  not 
enough,  I  have  my  earrings.  Eh  !  Genevieve,  take 
them  off  for  me  ;  the  earrings  will  square  all !  They 
shall  not  say  you  have  been  disgraced  on  account  of 
the  child — no,  not  even   if   I   must  pledge  a  bit  of  my 


l26  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  PIS. 

flesh !  My  watch,  my  earrings,  and  my  ring — get  rid  of 
all  of  them  for  me  at  the  goldsmith's ;  pay  the  woman, 
and  let  the  little  fool  go  to  sleep.  Give  him  me,  Gene- 
vieve ;  I  will  put  him  to  bed." 

And,  taking  the  baby  from  the  arms  of  his  mother, 
he  carried  him  with  a  firm  step  to  his  cradle. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  the  change  which  took  place 
in  Michael  from  this  day.  He  cut  all  his  old  drinking 
acquaintances.  He  went  early  every  morning  to  his 
work,  and  returned  regularly  in  the  evening  to  finish 
the  day  with  Genevieve  and  Robert.  Very  soon  he 
would  not  leave  them  at  all,  and  he  hired  a  place  near 
the  fruit-shop,  and  worked  in  it  on  his  own  account. 

They  would  soon  have  been  able  to  live  in  comfort, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  expenses  which  the  child  re- 
quired. Everything  was  given  up  to  his  education. 
He  had  gone  through  the  regular  school  training,  had 
studied  mathematics,  drawing,  and  the  carpenter's  trade, 
and  had  only  begun  to  work  a  few  months  ago.  Till 
now,  they  had  been  exhausting  every  resource  which 
their  laborious  industry  could  provide  to  push  him  for- 
ward in  his  business ;  but,  happily,  all  these  exertions 
had  not  proved  useless :  the  seed  had  brought  forth  its 
fruits,  and  the  days  of  harvest  were  close  by. 

While  I  was  thus  recalling  these  remembrances  to 
my  mind,  Michael  had  come  in,  and  was  occupied  in 
fixing  shelves  where  they  were  wanted. 

During  the  time  I  was  writing  the  notes  of  my  jour- 
nal, I  was  also  scrutinizing  the  joiner. 

The  excesses  of  his  youth  and  the  labour  of  his  man- 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL   A  ROUT.  \2J 

hood  have  deeply  marked  his  face  ;  his  hair  is  thin  and 
grey,  his  shoulders  stooping,  his  legs  shrunken  and 
slightly  bent.  There  seems  a  sort  of  weight  in  his  whole 
being.  His  very  features  have  an  expression  of  sorrow 
and  despondency.  He  answered  my  questions  by 
monosyllables,  and  like  a  man  who  wishes  to  avoid  con- 
versation. From  whence  is  this  dejection,  when  one 
would  think  he  had  all  he  could  wish  for  ?  I  should 
like  to  know  ! 

Ten  o'clock. — Michael  is  just  gone  down-stairs  to  look 
for  a  tool  he  has  forgotten.  I  have  at  last  succeeded  in 
drawing  from  him  the  secret  of  his  and  Genevieve's 
sorrow.     Their  son  Robert  is  the  cause  of  it ! 

Not  that  he  has  turned  out  ill  after  all  their  care — 
not  that  he  is  idle  or  dissipated  ;  but  both  were  in  hopes 
he  would  never  leave  them  any  more.  The  presence  of 
the  young  man  was  to  have  renewed  and  made  glad 
their  lives  once  more  ;  his  mother  counted  the  days,  his 
father  prepared  everything  to  receive  their  dear  asso- 
ciate in  their  toils ;  and  at  the  moment  when  they  were 
thus  about  to  be  repaid  for  all  their  sacrifices,  Robert 
had  suddenly  informed  them  that  he  had  just  engaged 
himself  to  a  contractor  at  Versailles. 

Every  remonstrance  and  every  prayer  were  useless ; 
he  brought  forward  the  necessity  of  initiating  himself 
into  all  the  details  of  an  important  contract,  the  facilities 
he  should  have  in  his  new  position  of  improving  himself 
in  his  trade,  and  the  hopes  he  had  of  turning  his  knowl- 
edge to  advantage.  At  last,  when  his  mother,  having 
come  to  the  end  of  her  arguments,  began    to   cry,  he 


I28  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

hastily  kissed  her,  and  went  away  that  he  might  avoid 
any  further  remonstrances. 

He  had  been  absent  a  year,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
give  them  hopes  of  his  return.  His  parents  hardly  saw 
him  once  a  month,  and  then  he  only  stayed  a  few 
moments  with  them. 

"  I  have  been  punished  where  I  had  hoped  to  be  re- 
warded," Michael  said  to  me  just  now.  "  I  had  wished 
for  a  saving  and  industrious  son,  and  God  has  given 
me  an  ambitious  and  avaricious  one !  I  had  always 
said  to  myself  that  when  once  he  was  grown  up  we 
should  have  him  always  with  us,  to  recall  our  youth 
and  to  enliven  our  hearts.  His  mother  was  always 
thinking  of  getting  him  married,  and  having  children 
again  to  care  for.  You  know  women  always  will  busy 
themselves  about  others.  As  for  me,  I  thought  of  him 
working  near  my  bench,  and  singing  his  now  songs  ;  for 
he  has  learnt  music,  and  is  one  of  the  best  singers  at  the 
Orpheon.  A  dream,  sir,  truly  !  Directly  the  bird  was 
fledged,  he  took  to  flight,  and  remembers  neither  father 
nor  mother.  Yesterday,  for  instance,  was  the  day  we 
expected  him  ;  he  should  have  come  to  supper  with  us. 
No  Robert  to-day  either!  He  has  had  some  plan  to 
finish,  or  some  bargain  to  arrange,  and  his  old  parents 
are  put  down  last  in  the  accounts,  after  the  customers 
and  the  joiner's  work.  Ah  !  if  I  could  have  guessed  how 
it  would  have  turned  out!  Fool!  to  have  sacrificed 
mv  likings  and  my  money,  for  nearly  twenty  years,  to 
the  education  of  a  thankless  son  !  Was  it  for  this  I  took 
the  trouble  to  cure  myself  of  drinking,  to  break  with  my 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT. 


129 


friends,  to  become  an  example  to  the  neighbourhood  ? 
The  jovial  good  fellow  has  made  a  goose  of  himself. 
Oh  !  if  I  had  to  begin  again  !  No,  no !  you  see  women 
and  children  are  our  bane.  They  soften  our  hearts  ; 
they  lead  us  a  life  of  hope  and  affection  ;  we  pass  a 
quarter  of  our  lives  in  fostering  the  growth  of  a  grain 
of  corn  which  is  to  be  everything  to  us  in  our  old  age, 
and  when  the  harvest-time  comes — good  night,  the  ear 
is  empty  !  " 

While  he  was  speaking,  Michael's  voice  became 
hoarse,  his  eye  fierce,  and  his  lips  quivered.  I  wished 
to  answer  him,  but  I  could  only  think  of  commonplace 
consolations,  and  I  remained  silent.  The  joiner  pre- 
tended he  wanted  a  tool,  and  left  me. 

Poor  father  !  Ah !  I  know  those  moments  of  temp- 
tation when  virtue  has  failed  to  reward  us,  and  we 
regret  having  obeyed  her  !  Who  has  not  felt  this  weak- 
ness in  hours  of  trial,  and  who  has  not  uttered,  at  least 
once,  the  mournful  exclamation  of  Brutus? 

But  if  virtue  is  only  a  word,  what  is  there  then  in  life 
which  is  true  and  real  ?  No,  I  will  not  believe  that 
goodness  is  in  vain!  It  does  not  always  give  the  hap- 
piness we  had  hoped  for,  but  it  brings  some  other.  In 
the  world  everything  is  ruled  by  order,  and  has  its 
proper  and  necessary  consequences,  and  virtue  can  not 
be  the  sole  exception  to  the  general  law.  If  it  had  been 
prejudicial  to  those  who  practice  it,  experience  would 
have  avenged  them  ;  but  experience  has,  on  the  con- 
trary, made  it  more  universal  and  more  holy.  We  only 
accuse  it  of  beine:  a  faithless  debtor  because  we  demand 


130 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


an  immediate  payment,  and  one  apparent  to  our  senses. 
We  always  consider  life  as  a  fairy  tale,  in  which  every 
good  action  must  be  rewarded  by  a  visible  wonder. 
We  do  not  accept  as  payment  a  peaceful  conscience, 
self-content,  or  a  good  name  among  men — treasures  that 
are  more  precious  than  any  other,  but  the  value  of  which 
we  do  not  feel  till  after  we  have  lost  them ! 

Michael  is  come  back,  and  returned  to  his  work. 
His  son  has  not  yet  arrived  ! 

By  telling  me  of  his  hopes  and  his  grievous  disap- 
pointments, he  became  excited  ;  he  unceasingly  went 
over  again  the  same  subject,  always  adding  something 
to  his  griefs,  He  has  just  wound  up  his  confidential 
discourse  by  speaking  to  me  of  a  joiner's  business  which 
he  had  hoped  to  buy,  and  work  to  good  account  with 
Robert's  help.  The  present  owner  had  made  a  fortune 
by  it,  and,  after  thirty  years  of  business,  he  was  thinking 
of  retiring  to  one  of  the  ornamental  cottages  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  city,  a  usual  retreat  for  the  frugal  and 
successful  working-man.  Michael  had  not  indeed  the 
two  thousand  francs  which  must  be  paid  down  ;  but 
perhaps  he  could  have  persuaded  Master  Benoit  to 
wait.  Robert's  presence  would  have  been  a  security  for 
him,  for  the  young  man  could  not  fail  to  insure  the 
prosperity  of  a  workshop  ;  besides  science  and  skill,  he 
had  the  power  of  invention  and  bringing  to  perfection. 
His  father  had  discovered  among  his  drawings  a  new 
plan  for  a  staircase,  which  had  occupied  his  thoughts 
for  a  long  time ;  and  he  even  suspected  him  of  having 
engaged    himself  to    the   Versailles  contractor  for   the 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  A  ROUT. 


131 


very  purpose  of  executing  it.  The  youth  was  torment- 
ed by  this  spirit  of  invention,  which  took  possession  of 
all  his  thoughts,  and,  while  devoting  his  mind  to  study, 
he  had  no  time  to  listen  to  his  feelings. 

Michael  told  me  all  this  with  a  mixed  feeling  of 
pride  and  vexation.  I  saw  he  was  proud  of  the  son  he 
was  abusing,  and  that  his  very  pride  made  him  more 
sensible  of  that  son's  neglect. 

Six  d clock  p.m. — I  have  just  finished  a  happy  day. 
How  many  events  have  happened  within  a  few  hours, 
and  what  a  change  for  Genevieve  and  Michael ! 

He  had  just  finished  fixing  the  shelves,  and  tell- 
ing me  of  his  son,  while  I  laid  the  cloth  for  my  break- 
fast. 

Suddenly  we  heard  hurried  steps  in  the  passage,  the 
door  opened,  and  Genevieve  entered  with  Robert. 

The  joiner  gave  a  start  of  joyful  surprise,  but  he  re- 
pressed it  immediately,  as  if  he  wished  to  keep  up  the 
appearance  of  displeasure. 

The  young  man  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  but 
threw  himself  into  his  arms  in  an  open-hearted  manner, 
which  surprised  me.  Genevieve,  whose  face  shone  with 
happiness,  seemed  to  wish  to  speak,  and  to  restrain  her- 
self with  difficulty. 

I  told  Robert  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  he  answered 
me  with  ease  and  civility. 

"  I  expected  you  yesterday,"  said  Michael  Arout 
rather  drily. 

"  Forgive  me,  father,"  replied  the  young  workman, 
"  but  I  had  business  at  St.  Germain's.     I  was  not  able  to 


!32  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOTIIER   IN  PARIS. 

come  back  till  it  was  very  late,  and  then  the  master 
kept  me." 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  son  sideways,  and  then  took 
up  his  hammer  again. 

"All  right,"  muttered  he  in  a  grumbling  tone  ;  "  when 
we  are  with  other  people  we  must  do  as  they  wish  ;  but 
there  are  some  who  would  like  better  to  eat  brown  bread 
with  their  own  knife  than  partridges  with  the  silver  fork 
of  a  master." 

"  And  I  am  one  of  those,  father,"  replied  Robert 
merrily  ;  "  but,  as  the  proverb  says,  you  must  shell  the 
peas  before  you  can  cat  them.  It  was  necessary  that  I 
should  first  work  in  a  great  workshop — " 

"  To  go  on  with  your  plan  of  the  staircase,"  inter- 
rupted  Michael,  ironically. 

"  You  must  now  say  M.  Raymond's  plan,  father," 
replied  Robert,  smiling. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  have  sold  it  to  him." 

The  joiner,  who  was  planing  a  board,  turned  round 
quickly. 

"  Sold  it ! "  cried  he,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  For  the  reason  that  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  give 
it  him." 

Michael  threw  down  the  board  and  tool. 

"  There  he  is  again  !  "  resumed,  he  angrily  ;  "  his 
good  genius  puts  an  idea  into  his  head  which  would 
have  made  him  known,  and  he  goes  and  sells  it  to  a  rich 
man,  who  will  take  the  honour  of  it  himself." 

"  Well,  what  harm  is  there  done?"  asked  Genevieve. 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL   A  ROUT.  ^3 

"  What  harm  !  "  cried  the  joiner,  in  a  passion.  "  You 
understand  nothing  about  it — you  are  a  woman  ;  but  he 
— he  knows  well  that  a  true  workman  never  gives  up 
his  own  inventions  for  money,  no  more  than  a  soldier 
would  give  up  his  cross.  That  is  his  glory  ;  he  is  bound 
to  keep  it  for  the  honour  it  does  him  !  Ah  !  thunder!  if 
I  had  ever  made  a  discovery,  rather  than  put  it  up  at 
auction  I  would  have  sold  one  of  my  eyes !  Don't  you 
see  that  a  new  invention  is  like  a  child  to  a  workman  ? 
He  takes  care  of  it,  he  brings  it  up,  he  makes  a  way 
for  it  in  the  world,  and  it  is  only  poor  creatures  who 
sell  it." 

Robert  coloured  a  little. 

"  You  will  think  differently,  father,"  said  he,  "  when 
you  know  why  I  sold  my  plan." 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  thank  him  for  it,"  added  Gen- 
evieve, who  could  no  longer  keep  silence. 

"  Never  !  "  replied  Michael. 

"  But,  wretched  man !  "  cried  she,  "  he  only  sold  it 
for  our  sakes  !  " 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  wife  and  son  with  aston- 
ishment. It  was  necessary  to  come  to  an  explanation. 
The  latter  related  how  he  had  entered  into  a  negotia- 
tion with  Master  Benoit,  who  had  positively  refused  to 
sell  his  business  unless  one  half  of  the  two  thousand 
francs  were  first  paid  down.  It  was  in  the  hopes  of  ob- 
taining this  sum  that  he  had  gone  to  work  with  the 
contractor  at  Versailles:  he  had  had  an  opportunity 
of  trying  his  invention,  and  of  finding  a  purchaser. 
Thanks  to  the  money  he  received  for  it,  he  had  just  con- 


134 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


eluded  the  bargain  with  Benoit,  and  had  brought  his 
father  the  key  of  the  new  work-yard. 

This  explanation  was  given  by  the  young  workman 
with  so  much  modesty  and  simplicity  that  I  was  quite 
affected  by  it.  Genevieve  cried  ;  Michael  pressed  his 
son  to  his  heart,  and  in  a  long  embrace  he  seemed  to  ask 
his  pardon  for  having  unjustly  accused  him. 

All  was  now  explained  with  honour  to  Robert. 
The  conduct  which  his  parents  had  ascribed  to  indif- 
ference really  sprang  from  affection  ;  he  had  neither 
obeyed  the  voice  of  ambition,  nor  of  avarice,  nor  even 
the  nobler  inspiration  of  inventive  genius  ;  his  whole 
motive  and  single  aim  had  been  the  happiness  of  Gen- 
evieve and  Michael.  The  day  for  proving  his  gratitude 
had  come,  and  he  had  returned  them  sacrifice  for  sac- 
rifice ! 

After  the  explanations  and  exclamations  of  joy  were 
over,  all  three  were  about  to  leave  me ;  but  the  cloth 
being  laid,  I  added  three  more  places,  and  kept  them  to 
breakfast. 

The  meal  was  prolonged :  the  fare  was  only  toler- 
able ;  but  the  overflowings  of  affection  made  it  delicious. 
Never  had  I  better  understood  the  unspeakable  charm 
of  family  love.  What  calm  enjoyment  in  that  happiness 
which  is  always  shared  with  others;  in  that  community 
of  interests  which  unites  such  various  feelings  ;  in  that 
association  of  existences  which  forms  one  single  being  of 
so  many  !  What  is  man  without  those  home  affections, 
which,  like  so  many  roots,  fix  him  firmly  in  the  earth, 
and  permit  him  to  imbibe  all  the  juices  of  life  ?     Energy, 


THE   FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL   A  ROUT. 


135 


happiness — does  it  not  all  come  from  them  ?  Without 
family  life  where  would  man  learn  to  love,  to  associate, 
to  deny  himself?  A  community  in  little,  is  it  not  this 
which  teaches  us  how  to  live  in  the  great  one  ?  Such  is 
the  holiness  of  home,  that  to  express  our  relation  with 
God,  we  have  been  obliged  to  borrow  the  words  in- 
vented for  our  family  life.  Men  have  named  themselves 
the  sons  of  a  heavenly  Father  ! 

Ah  !  let  us  carefully  preserve  these  chains  of  do- 
mestic union  ;  do  not  let  us  unbind  the  human  sheaf, 
and  scatter  its  ears  to  all  the  caprices  of  chance  and  of 
the  winds;  but  let  us  rather  enlarge  this  holy  law;  let 
us  carry  the  principles  and  the  habits  of  home  beyond 
its  bounds;  and,  if  it  may  be,  let  us  realise  the  prayer 
of  the  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  when  he  exclaimed  to 
the  new-born  children  of  Christ:  "  Be  ye  like-minded, 
having  the  same  love,  being  of  one  accord,  of  one 
mind."* 

*  Philippians,  ii,  2. 


^Pt 


CHAPTER    X. 


OUR   COUNTRY. 


October  12th,  seven  d clock  a.  M. — The  nights  are  al- 
ready become  cold  and  long- ;  the  sun,  shining  through 
my  curtains,  no  more  wakens  me  long  before  the  hour 
for  work;  and  even  when  my  eyes  are  open,  the  pleas- 
ant warmth  of  the  bed  keeps  me  fast  under  my  counter- 
pane. Every  morning  there  begins  a  long  argument 
between  my  activity  and  my  indolence ;  and,  snugly 
wrapped  up  to  the  eyes,  I  wait  like  the  Gascon,  until 
they  have  succeeded  in  coming  to  an  agreement. 

This  morning,  however,  a  light,  which  shone  from 
my  door  upon  my  pillow,  awoke  me  earlier  than  usual. 
In  vain  I  turned  on  my  side ;  the  persevering  light,  like 
a  victorious  enemy,  pursued  me  into  every  position. 
At  last,  quite  out  of  patience,  I  sat  up  and  hurled  my 
nightcap  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  ! 

(I  will  observe,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  the 
various  evolutions  of  this  pacific  head-gear  seem  to 
have  been,  from  the  remotest  time,  symbols  of  the  vehe- 
ment emotions  of  the  mind  ;  for  our  language  has  bor- 


OUR  COUNTRY. 


137 


rowed  its  most  common  images  from  them.  Thus  we 
say :  Mettre  son  bonnet  de  travers ;  jetcr  son  bonnet  par- 
dcssus  les  moulins  ;  avoir  la  tete  pres  dn  bonnet,  etc.*) 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  I  got  up  in  a  very  bad 
humour,  grumbling  at  my  new  neighbour,  who  took 
it  into  his  head  to  be  wakeful  when  I  wished  to  sleep. 
We  are  all  made  thus ;  we  do  not  understand  that 
others  may  live  on  their  own  account.  Each  one  of  us 
is  like  the  earth  according  to  the  old  system  of  Ptolemy, 
and  thinks  he  can  have  the  whole  universe  revolve 
round  himself.  On  this  point,  to  make  use  of  the  meta- 
phor alluded  to :  Tons  les  Jiommcs  ont  la  fete-dans  le  meme 
bonnet.^ 

I  had  for  the  time  being,,  as  I  have  already  said, 
thrown  mine  to  the  other  end  of  my  bed  ;  and  I  slowly 
disengaged  my  legs  from  the  warm  bed-clothes,  while 
making  a  host  of  evil  reflections  upon  the  inconvenience 
of  having  neighbours. 

For  more  than  a  month  I  had  not  had  to  complain 
of  those  whom  chance  had  given  me ;  most  of  them 
only  came  in  to  sleep,  and  went  away  again  on  rising. 
I  was  almost  always  alone  on  this  top  story — alone  with 
the  clouds  and  the  sparrows! 

But  at  Paris  nothing  lasts :  the  current  of  life  carries 
us  along,  like  the  seaweed  torn  from  the  rock :  the 
houses  are  vessels  which  take  mere  passengers.  I  low 
many  different  faces  have  I  already  seen  pass  along  the 

*  To  be  in  a  bad  humour. 

To  brave  the  opinions  of  the  world. 
To  be  angry  about  a  trifle, 
f  Said  of  those  who  are  of  the  same  opinions  and  tastes. 


138  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

landing-place  belonging  to  our  attics  !  How  many  com- 
panions of  a  few  days  have  disappeared  forever !  Some 
are  lost  in  that  medley  of  the  living  which  whirls  con- 
tinually under  the  scourge  of  necessity,  and  others  in 
that  resting-place  of  the  dead,  who  sleep  under  the  hand 
of  God ! 

Peter  the  bookbinder  is  one  of  these  last.  Wrapped 
up  in  selfishness,  he  lived  alone  and  friendless,  and  he 
died  as  he  had  lived.  His  loss  was  neither  mourned  by 
any  one,  nor  disarranged  anything  in  the  world  ;  there 
was  merely  a  ditch  filled  up  in  the  graveyard,  and  an 
attic  emptied  in  our  house. 

It  is  the  same  which  my  new  neighbour  has  inhab- 
ited for  the  last  few  days. 

To  say  truly  (now  that  I  am  quite  awake,  and  my 
ill  humour  is  gone  to  join  my  nightcap) — to  say  truly, 
this  new  neighbour,  although  rising  earlier  than  suits 
my  idleness,  is  not  the  less  a  very  good  man :  he 
carries  his  misfortunes,  as  few  know  how  to  carry 
their  good  fortunes,  with  cheerfulness  and  modera- 
tion. 

But  fate  has  cruelly  tried  him.  Father  Chaufour  is 
but  the  wreck  of  a  man.  In  the  place  of  one  of  his 
arms  hangs  an  empty  sleeve ;  his  left  leg  is  made  by 
the  turner,  and  he  drags  the  right  along  with  difficulty  ; 
but  above  these  ruins  rises  a  calm  and  happy  face. 
While  looking  upon  his  countenance,  radiant  with  a 
serene  energy,  while  listening  to  his  voice,  the  tone  of 
which  has,  so  to  speak,  the  accent  of  goodness,  we  see 
that  the  soul  has  remained  entire  in  the  half-destroyed 


OUR  COUNTRY.  i^g 

covering.  The  fortress  is  a  little  damaged,  as  Father 
Chaufour  says,  but  the  garrison  is  quite  hearty. 

Decidedly,  the  more  I  think  of  this  excellent  man, 
the  more  I  reproach  myself  for  the  sort  of  malediction 
I  bestowed  on  him  when  I  awoke. 

We  are  generally  too  indulgent  in  our  secret  wrongs 
toward  our  neighbour.  All  ill  will  which  does  not  pass 
the  region  of  thought  seems  innocent  to  us,  and,  with 
our  clumsy  justice,  we  excuse  without  examination  the 
sin  which  does  not  betray  itself  by  action  ! 

But  are  we  then  only  bound  to  others  by  the  en- 
forcement of  laws?  Besides  these  external  relations,  is 
there  not  a  real  relation  of  feeling  between  men  ?  Do 
we  not  owe  to  all  those  who  live  under  the  same  heaven 
as  ourselves  the  aid  not  only  of  our  acts  but  of  our  pur- 
poses ?  Ought  not  every  human  life  to  be  to  us  like  a 
vessel  that  we  accompany  with  our  prayers  for  a  happy 
voyage?  It  is  not  enough  that  men  do  not  harm  one 
another ;  they  must  also  help  and  love  one  another ! 
The  papal  benediction,  Urbi  ct  orbi !  should  be  the  con- 
stant cry  from  all  hearts.  To  condemn  him  who  does 
not  deserve  it,  even  in  the  mind,  even  by  a  passing 
thought,  is  to  break  the  great  law,  that  which  has  estab- 
lished the  union  of  souls  here  below,  and  to  which 
Christ  has  given  the  sweet  name  of  charity. 

These  thoughts  came  into  my  mind  as  I  finished 
dressing,  and  1  said  to  myself  that  Father  Chaufour  had 
a  right  to  a  reparation  from  me.  To  make  amends  for 
the  feeling  of  ill  will  I  had  against  him  just  now,  I 
owed  him   some   explicit  proof  of  sympathy.     1  heard 


140 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


him  humming  a  tune  in  his  room  ;  he  was  at  work,  and 
I  determined  that  I  would  make  the  first  neighbourly- 
call. 

Eight  d clock  P.  M. — I  found  Father  Chaufour  at  a 
table  lighted  by  a  little  smoky  lamp,  without  a  fire, 
although  it  is  already  cold,  and  making  large  paste- 
board boxes ;  he  was  humming  a  popular  song  in  a  low 
tone.  I  had  hardly  entered  the  room  when  he  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"  Eh  !  is  it  you,  neighbour  ?  Come  in,  then  !  I  did 
not  think  you  got  up  so  early,  so  I  put  a  damper  on  my 
music  ;  I  was  afraid  of  waking  you." 

Excellent  man  !  while  I  was  sending  him  to  the  devil 
he  was  putting  himself  out  of  his  way  for  me  ! 

This  thought  touched  me,  and  I  paid  my  compli- 
ments on  his  having  become  my  neighbour  with  a 
warmth  which  opened  his  heart. 

"  Faith  !  you  seem  to  me  to  have  the  look  of  a  good 
Christian,"  said  he  in  a  voice  of  soldierlike  cordiality, 
and  shaking  me  by  the  hand.  "  I  do  not  like  those  peo- 
ple who  look  on  a  landing-place  as  a  frontier  line,  and 
treat  their  neighbours  as  if  they  were  Cossacks.  When 
men  snuff  the  same  air,  and  speak  the  same  lingo,  they 
are  not  meant  to  turn  their  backs  to  each  other.  Sit 
down  there,  neighbour  ;  I  don't  mean  to  order  you  ; 
only  take  care  of  the  stool.  It  has  but  three  legs,  and 
we  must  put  good  will  in  the  place  of  the  fourth." 

"  It  seems  that  that  is  a  treasure  which  there  is  no 
want  of  here,"  I  observed. 

"  Good  will !  "  repeated  Chaufour ;  "  that  is  all  my 


OUR  COUNTRY.  l/^l 

mother  left  me,  and  I  take  it  no  son  has  received  a  bet- 
ter inheritance.  Therefore  they  used  to  call  me  Mr. 
Content  in  the  batteries." 

"  You  are  a  soldier,  then  ?  " 

"  I  served  in  the  Third  Artillery  under  the  Re- 
public, and  afterward  in  the  Guard,  through  all  the 
commotions.  I  was  at  Jemappes  and  at  Waterloo ;  so 
I  was  at  the  christening  and  at  the  burial  of  our  glory, 
as  one  may  say  !  " 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment. 

"  And  how  old  were  you,  then,  at  Jemappes  ? " 
asked  I. 

"  Somewhere  about  fifteen,"  said  he. 

"  How  came  you  to  think  of  being  a  soldier  so  early?" 

"  I  did  not  really  think  about  it.  I  then  worked  at 
toy  making,  and  never  dreamt  that  France  could  ask 
me  for  anything  else  than  to  make  her  draught-boards, 
shuttlecocks,  and  cups  and  balls.  But  I  had  an  old 
uncle  at  Vincennes  whom  I  went  to  see  from  time  to 
time — a  Fontenoy  veteran  in  the  same  rank  of  life  as 
myself,  but  with  ability  enough  to  have  risen  to  that  of 
a  marshal.  Unluckily,  in  those  days  there  was  no  way 
for  common  people  to  get  on.  My  uncle,  whose  serv- 
ices would  have  got  him  made  a  prince  under  the  other, 
had  then  retired  with  the  mere  rank  of  sub-lieutenant. 
But  you  should  have  seen  him  in  his  uniform,  his  cross 
of  St.  Louis,  his  wooden  leg,  his  white  moustaches,  and 
his  noble  countenance.  You  would  have  said  he  was  a 
portrait  of  one  of  those  old  heroes  in  powdered  hair 
which  are  at  Versailles! 


1 42 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


"  Every  time  I  visited  him,  he  said  something  which 
remained  fixed  in  my  memory.  But  one  day  I  found 
him  quite  grave. 

"  '  Jerome,'  said  he,  '  do  you  know  what  is  going  on 
on  the  frontier  ?  ' 

"  '  No,  lieutenant,'  replied  I. 

"  '  Well,'  resumed  he,  '  our  country  is  in  danger ! ' 

"  I  did  not  well  understand  him,  and  yet  it  seemed 
something  to  me. 

"  '  Perhaps  you  have  never  thought  what  your  coun- 
try means,'  continued  he,  placing  his  hand  on  my  shoul- 
der. '  It  is  all  that  surrounds  you,  all  that  has  brought 
you  up  and  fed  you,  all  that  you  have  loved !  This 
ground  that  you  see,  these  houses,  these  trees,  those 
girls  who  go  along  there  laughing — this  is  your  coun- 
try !  The  laws  which  protect  you,  the  bread  which 
pays  for  your  work,  the  words  you  interchange  with 
others,  the  joy  and  grief  which  come  to  you  from  the 
men  and  things  among  which  you  live — this  is  your 
country  !  The  little  room  where  you  used  to  see  your 
mother,  the  remembrances  she  has  left  you,  the  earth 
where  she  rests — this  is  your  country  !  You  see  it,  you 
breathe  it,  everywhere!  Think  to  yourself,  my  son,  of 
your  rights  and  your  duties,  your  affections  and  your 
wants,  your  past  and  your  present  blessings  ;  write 
them  all  under  a  single  name — and  that  name  will  be 
your  country  ! ' 

"  I  was  trembling  with  emotion,  and  great  tears  were 
in  my  eyes. 

"'Ah!  I   understand,'  cried    I.     'It  is  our  home  in 


OUR  COUNTRY. 


143 


large ;  it  is  that  part  of  the  world  where  God  has 
placed  our  body  and  our  soul.' 

"'You  are  right,  Jerome,'  continued  the  old  soldier; 
'  so  you  comprehend  also  what  we  owe  it.' 

"  'Truly,'  resumed  I,  '  we  owe  it  all  that  we  are.  It 
is  a  question  of  love.' 

"'And  of  honesty,  rav  son,'  concluded  he.  'The 
member  of  a  family  who  does  not  contribute  his  share 
of  work  and  of  happiness  fails  in  his  duty,  and  is  a  bad 
kinsman  ;  the  member  of  a  partnership  who  does  not 
enrich  it  with  all  his  might,  with  all  his  courage,  and 
with  all  his  heart,  defrauds  it  of  what  belongs  to  it,  and 
is  a  dishonest  man.  It  is  the  same  with  him  who  en- 
joys the  advantages  of  having  a  country,  and  does  not 
accept  the  burdens  of  it ;  he  forfeits  his  honour,  and  is 
a  bad  citizen  !  ' 

"  '  And  what  must  one  do,  lieutenant,  to  be  a  good 
citizen  ?  '  asked  I. 

" '  Do  for  your  country  what  you  would  do  for  your 
father  and  mother,'  said  he. 

"  I  did  not  answer  at  the  moment ;  my  heart  was 
swelling,  and  the  blood  boiling  in  my  veins :  but  on  re- 
turning along  the  road,  my  uncle's  words  were,  so  to 
speak,  written  up  before  my  eyes.  I  repeated,  '  Do  for 
your  country  what  you  would  do  for  your  father  and 
mother.'  And  my  country  is  in  clanger  ;  an  enemy  at- 
tacks it,  while  I — I  turn  cups  and  balls ! 

"  This  thought  tormented  me  so  much  all  night,  that 
the  next  day  I  returned  to  Vincennes  to  announce  to 
the  lieutenant  that  I  had  just  enlisted,  and  was  going  off 


144 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


to  the  frontiers.  The  brave  man  pressed  me  upon  his 
cross  of  St.  Louis,  and  I  went  away  as  proud  as  an  am- 
bassador. 

"  That  is  how,  neighbour,  I  became  a  volunteer  under 
the  Republic  before  I  had  cut  my  wisdom  teeth." 

All  this  was  told  quietly,  and  in  the  cheerful  spirit  of 
him  who  looks  upon  an  accomplished  duty  neither  as  a 
merit  nor  a  grievance. 

While  he  spoke,  Father  Chaufour  grew  animated, 
not  on  account  of  himself,  but  of  the  general  subject. 
Evidently  that  which  occupied  him  in  the  drama  of  life 
was  not  his  own  part,  but  the  drama  itself. 

This  sort  of  disinterestedness  touched  me.  I  pro- 
longed my  visit,  and  showed  myself  as  frank  as  possible, 
in  order  to  win  his  confidence  in  return.  In  an  hour's 
time  he  knew  my  position  and  my  habits;  I  was  on  the 
footing  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

I  even  confessed  the  ill  humour  the  light  of  his  lamp 
put  me  into  a  short  time  before.  He  took  what  I  said 
with  the  touching  cheerfulness  which  comes  from  a 
heart  in  the  right  place,  and  which  looks  upon  every- 
thing on  the  good  side.  He  neither  spoke  to  me  of  the 
necessity  which  obliged  him  to  work  while  I  could 
sleep,  nor  of  the  deprivations  of  the  old  soldier  com- 
pared to  the  luxury  of  the  young  clerk  ;  he  only  struck 
his  forehead,  accused  himself  of  thoughtlessness,  and 
promised  to  put  list  round  his  door ! 

O  great  and  beautiful  soul !  with  whom  nothing 
turns  to  bitterness,  and  who  art  peremptory  only  in 
duty  and  benevolence ! 


OUR  COUNTRY. 


H5 


October  15th. — This  morning  I  was  looking  at  a  little 
engraving  I  had  framed  myself,  and  hung  over  my 
writing-table ;  it  is  a  design  of  Gavarni's,  in  which,  in  a 
grave  mood,  he  has  represented  "A  Veteran  and  a  Con- 
script." * 

By  often  contemplating  these  two  figures,  so  differ- 
ent in  expression,  and  so  true  to  life,  both  have  become 
living  in  my  eyes  ;  I  have  seen  them  move,  I  have  heard 
them  speak ;  the  picture  has  become  a  real  scene,  at 
which  I  am  present  as  spectator. 

The  veteran  advances  slowly,  his  hand  leaning  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  young  soldier.  His  eyes,  closed  for- 
ever, no  longer  perceive  the  sun  shining  through  the 
flowering  chestnut-trees.  In  the  place  of  his  right  arm 
hangs  an  empty  sleeve,  and  he  walks  with  a  wooden  leg, 
the  sound  of  which  on  the  pavement  makes  those  who 
pass  turn  to  look. 

At  the  sight  of  this  ancient  wreck  from  our  patriotic 
wars,  the  greater  number  shake  their  heads  in  pity,  and 
I  seem  to  hear  a  sigh  or  an  imprecation. 

"See  the  worth  of  glory  !  "  says  a  portly  merchant, 
turning  away  his  eyes  in  horror. 

"  What  a  deplorable  use  of  human  life  !  "  rejoins  a 
young  man  who  carries  a  volume  of  philosophy  under 
his  arm. 

"  The  trooper  would  better  not  have  left  his  plough," 
adds  a  countryman  with  a  cunning  air. 

"  Poor  old  man  !  "  murmurs  a  woman  almost  cry- 
ing. 

*See  this  beautiful  composition  in  the  "Magasin  Pittoresque"  for  1847. 


146  AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  veteran  has  heard,  and  he  knits  his  brow ;  for  it 
seems  to  him  that  his  guide  has  grown  thoughtful.  The 
latter,  attracted  by  what  he  hears  around  him,  hardly 
answers  the  old  man's  questions,  and  his  eyes,  vaguely 
lost  in  space,  seem  to  be  seeking  there  for  the  solution 
of  some  problem. 

I  seem  to  see  a  twitching  in  the  grey  moustaches  of 
the  veteran  ;  he  stops  abruptly,  and,  holding  back  his 
guide  with  his  remaining  arm — 

"  They  all  pity  me,"  says  he,  "  because  they  do  not 
understand  it;  but  if  I  were  to  answer  them — " 

"What  would  you  say  to  them,  father?"  asks  the 
young  man  with  curiosity. 

"  I  would  say  first  to  the  woman  who  weeps  when 
she  looks  at  me,  to  keep  her  tears  for  other  misfortunes  ; 
for  each  of  my  wounds  calls  to  mind  some  struggle 
for  my  colours.  There  is  room  for  doubting  how  some 
men  have  done  their  duty ;  with  me  it  is  visible.  I 
carry  the  account  of  my  services,  written  with  the  en- 
emy's steel  and  lead,  on  myself;  to  pity  me  for  hav- 
ing done  my  duty,  is  to  suppose  I  would  better  have 
been  false  to  it." 

"  And  what  would  you  say  to  the  countryman,  fa- 
ther?" 

"  T  would  tell  him  that,  to  drive  the  plough  in  peace, 
we  must  first  secure  the  country  itself  ;  and  that,  as 
long  as  there  are  foreigners  ready  to  eat  our  harvest, 
there  must  be  arms  to  defend  it." 

"  But  the  young  student,  too,  shook  his  head  when 
he  lamented  such  a  use  of  life." 


OUR  COUNTRY. 


H7 


"  Because  he  does  not  know  what  self-sacrifice  and 
suffering  can  teach.  The  books  which  he  studies  we 
have  put  in  practice,  though  we  never  read  them  :  the 
principles  he  applauds  we  have  defended  with  powder 
and  bayonet." 

"  And  at  the  price  of  your  limbs  and  your  blood. 
The  merchant  said,  when  he  sawr  your  maimed  body, 
'  See  the  worth  of  glory  ! '  " 

"  Do  not  believe  him,  my  son :  the  true  glory  is  the 
bread  of  the  soul ;  it  is  this  which  nourishes  self-sacri- 
fice, patience,  and  courage.  The  Master  of  all  has  be- 
stowed it  as  a  tie  the  more  between  men.  When  we 
desire  to  be  distinguished  by  our  brethren,  do  we  not 
thus  prove  our  esteem  and  our  sympathy  for  them  ? 
The  longing  for  admiration  is  but  one  side  of  love.  No, 
no ;  the  true  glory  can  never  be  too  dearly  paid  for ! 
That  which  we  should  deplore,  child,  is  not  the  infirmities 
which  prove  a  generous  self-sacrifice,  but  those  which 
our  vices  or  our  imprudence  have  called  forth.  Ah  !  if  I 
could  speak  aloud  to  those  who,  when  passing,  cast 
looks  of  pity  upon  me,  I  should  say  to  the  young  man 
whose  excesses  have  dimmed  his  sight  before  he  is  old, 
'  What  have  you  done  with  your  eyes  ? '  To  the  sloth- 
ful man,  who  with  difficulty  drags  along  his  enervated 
mass  of  flesh,  'What  have  you  done  with  your  feet?' 
To  the  old  man  who  is  punished  for  his  intemperance 
by  the  gout,  '  What  have  you  done  with  your  hands?' 
To  all,  '  What  have  you  done  with  the  days  God 
granted  you,  with  the  faculties  you  should  have  em- 
ployed for  the  good  of  your  brethren?      If  you  cannot 


148 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


answer  bestow  no  more  of  your  pity  upon  the  old  sol- 
dier maimed  in  his  country's  cause;  for  he — he  at  least 
— can  show  his  scars  without  shame.'  " 

October  16th. — The  little  engraving  has  made  me 
comprehend  better  the  merits  of  Father  Chaufour,  and 
I  therefore  esteem  him  all  the  more. 

He  has  just  now  left  my  attic.  There  no  longer 
passes  a  single  day  without  his  coming  to  work  by  my 
fire,  or  my  going  to  sit  and  talk  by  his  board. 

The  old  artilleryman  has  seen  much,  and  likes  to  tell 
of  it.  For  twenty  years  he  was  an  armed  traveller 
throughout  Europe,  and  he  fought  without  hatred,  for 
he  was  possessed  by  a  single  thought — the  honour  of 
the  national  flag!  It  might  have  been  his  superstition, 
if  you  will ;  but  it  was,  at  the  same  time,  his  safe- 
guard. 

The  word  France,  which  was  then  resounding  so 
gloriously  through  the  world,  served  as  a  talisman 
to  him  against  all  sorts  of  temptation.  To  have  to 
support  a  great  name  may  seem  a  burden  to  vulgar 
minds,  but  it  is  an  encouragement  to  vigourous 
ones. 

"  I,  too,  have  had  many  moments,"  said  he  to  me  the 
other  day,  "  when  I  have  been  tempted  to  make  friends 
with  the  devil.  War  is  not  precisely  the  school  for  rural 
virtues.  By  dint  of  burning,  destroying,  and  killing, 
you  grow  a  little  tough  as  regards  your  feelings ;  and, 
when  the  bayonet  has  made  you  king,  the  notions  of  an 
autocrat  come  into  your  head  a  little  strongly.  But  at 
these  moments  I  called  to  mind  that  country  which  the 


OUR   COUNTRY.  l^g 

lieutenant  spoke  of  to  me,  and  I  whispered  to  myself 
the  well-known  phrase,  Toujours  Francais  !  It  has  been 
laughed  at  since.  People  who  would  make  a  joke  of 
the  death  of  their  mother  have  turned  it  into  ridicule,  as 
if  the  name  of  our  country  was  not  also  a  noble  and  a 
binding  thing.  For  my  part,  I  shall  never  forget  from 
how  many  follies  the  title  of  Frenchman  has  kept  me. 
When,  overcome  with  fatigue,  I  have  found  myself  in 
the  rear  of  the  colours,  and  when  the  musketry  was 
rattling  in  the  front  ranks,  many  a  time  I  heard  a  voice, 
which  whispered  in  my  ear,  '  Leave  the  others  to  fight, 
and  for  to-day  take  care  of  your  own  hide ! '  But  then, 
that  word  Francais !  murmured  within  me,  and  I 
pressed  forward  to  help  my  comrades.  At  other 
times,  when,  irritated  by  hunger,  cold,  and  wounds,  I 
have  arrived  at  the  hovel  of  some  Meinherr,  I  have 
been  seized  by  an  itching  to  break  the  master's  back, 
and  to  burn  his  hut  ;  but  I  whispered  to  myself,  Fran- 
cais /  and  this  name  would  not  rhyme  either  with  in- 
cendiary or  murderer.  I  have,  in  this  way,  passed 
through  kingdoms  from  east  to  west,  and  from  north 
to  south,  always  determined  not  to  bring  disgrace 
upon  my  country's  flag.  The  lieutenant,  you  see,  had 
taught  me  a  magic  word — My  country !  Not  only 
must  we  defend  it.  but  we  must  also  make  it  great  and 
loved." 

October  ijth.  —  To-day  I  have  paid  my  neigh- 
bour a  long  visit.  A  chance  expression  led  the  way 
to  his  telling  me  more  of  himself  than  he  had  yet 
done. 


i5o 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


I  asked  him  whether  both  his  limbs  had  been  lost  in 
the  same  battle. 

"  No,  no ! "  replied  he  ;  "  the  cannon  only  took  my 
leg ;  it  was  the  Clamart  quarries  that  my  arm  went  to 
feed." 

And  when  I  asked  him  for  the  particulars — 

"  That's  as  easy  as  to  say  good  morning,"  continued 
he.  "  After  the  great  break-up  at  Waterloo,  I  stayed 
three  months  in  the  camp  hospital  to  give  my  wooden 
leg  time  to  grow.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  hobble  a 
little,  I  took  leave  of  headquarters,  and  took  the  road  to 
Paris,  where  I  hoped  to  find  some  relation  or  friend  ; 
but  no — all  were  gone,  or  under  ground.  I  should  have 
found  myself  less  strange  at  Vienna,  Madrid,  or  Berlin. 
And  although  I  had  a  leg  the  less  to  provide  for,  I  was 
none  the  better  off ;  my  appetite  had  come  back,  and 
my  last  sous  were  taking  flight. 

"  I  had  indeed  met  my  old  colonel,  who  recollected 
that  I  had  helped  him  out  of  the  skirmish  at  Montereau 
by  giving  him  my  horse,  and  he  had  offered  me  bed 
and  board  at  his  house.  I  knew  that  the  year  before  he 
had  married  a  castle  and  no  few  farms,  so  that  I  might 
become  permanent  coat-brusher  to  a  millionaire,  which 
was  not  without  its  temptations.  It  remained  to  see  if  I 
had  not  anything  better  to  do.  One  evening  I  set  my- 
self to  reflect  upon  it. 

"  '  Let  us  see,  Chaufour,'  said  I  to  myself ;  '  the  ques- 
tion is  to  act  like  a  man.  The  colonel's  place  suits  you, 
but  cannot  you  do  anything  better?  Your  body  is  still 
in  good  condition,  and  your  arms  strong ;  do  you  not  owe 


OUR    COUNTRY. 


151 


all  your  strength  to  your  country,  as  your  Vincennes 
uncle  said  ?  Why  not  leave  some  old  soldier,  more 
cut  up  than  you  are,  to  get  his  hospital  at  the  colo- 
nel's ?  Come,  trooper,  you  are  still  fit  for  another  stout 
charge  or  two !  You  must  not  lay  up  before  your 
time.' 

"  Whereupon  I  went  to  thank  the  colonel,  and  to 
offer  my  services  to  an  old  artilleryman,  who  had  gone 
back  to  his  home  at  Clamart,  and  who  had  taken  up  the 
quarryman's  pick  again. 

"  For  the  first  few  months  I  played  the  conscript's 
part — that  is  to  say,  there  was  more  stir  than  work  ;  but 
with  a  good  will  one  gets  the  better  of  stones,  as  of 
everything  else.  I  did  not  become,  so  to  speak,  the 
leader  of  a  column,  but  I  brought  up  the.  rank  among 
the  good  workmen,  and  I  ate  my  bread  with  a  good 
appetite,  seeing  I  had  earned  it  with  a  good  will.  For 
even  underground,  you  see,  I  still  kept  my  pride.  The 
thought  that  I  was  working  to  do  my  part  in  changing 
rocks  into  houses  pleased  my  heart.  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Courage,  Chaufour,  my  old  boy  ;  you  are  helping 
to  beautify  your  country.'  And  that  kept  up  my 
spirit. 

"  Unfortunately,  some  of  my  companions  were  rather 
too  sensible  to  the  charms  of  the  brandy  bottle ;  so 
much  so,  that  one  day  one  of  them,  who  could  hardly 
distinguish  his  right  hand  from  his  left,  thought 
proper  to  strike  a  light  close  to  a  charged  mine.  The 
mine  exploded  suddenly,  and  sent  a  shower  of  stone 
grape    among    us,    which    killed    three    men,    and    car- 


152  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

ried  away  the  arm  of  which  I  have  now  only  the 
sleeve." 

"  So  you  were  again  without  means  of  living  ?  "  said 
I  to  the  old  soldier. 

"  That  is  to  say,  I  had  to  change  them,"  replied  he 
quietly.  "  The  difficulty  was  to  find  one  which  would 
do  with  five  fingers  instead  of  ten  ;  I  found  it,  how- 
ever." 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  Among  the  Paris  street-sweepers." 

"  What!  you  have  been  one — " 

"  Of  the  pioneers  of  the  health  force  for  a  while, 
neighbour,  and  that  was  not  my  worst  time  either.  The 
corps  of  sweepers  is  not  so  low  as  it  is  dirty,  I  can  tell 
you  !  There  are  old  actresses  in  it  who  could  never 
learn  to  save  their  money,  and  ruined  merchants  from 
the  exchange ;  we  even  had  a  professor  of  classics,  who 
for  a  little  drink  would  recite  Latin  to  you,  or  Greek 
tragedies,  as  you  chose.  They  could  not  have  com- 
peted for  the  Monthyon  prize  ;  but  we  excused  faults  on 
account  of  poverty,  and  cheered  our  poverty  by  our 
good  humour  and  jokes.  I  was  as  ragged  and  as  cheer- 
ful as  the  rest,  while  trying  to  be  something  better. 
Even  in  the  mire  of  the  gutter  I  preserved  my  faith 
that  nothing  is  dishonourable  which  is  useful  to  our 
country. 

" '  Chaufour,'  said  I  to  myself  with  a  smile,  '  after  the 
sword,  the  hammer  ;  after  the  hammer,  the  broom  ;  you 
are  going  down-stairs,  my  old  boy,  but  you  are  still  serv- 
ing your  country.' " 


OUR   COUNTRY. 


153 


"  However,  you  ended  by  leaving  your  new  profes- 
sion? "  said  I. 

"  A  reform  was  required,  neighbour.  The  street- 
sweepers  seldom  have  their  feet  dry,  and  the  damp  at 
last  made  the  wounds  in  my  good  leg  open  again.  I 
could  no  longer  follow  the  regiment,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  lay  down  my  arms.  It  is  now  two  months  since 
I  left  off  working  in  the  sanitary  department  of  Paris. 

"At  the  first  moment  I  was  daunted.  Of  my  four 
limbs,  I  had  now  only  my  right  hand,  and  even  that  had 
lost  its  strength  ;  so  it  was  necessary  to  find  some  gen- 
tlemanly occupation  for  it.  After  trying  a  little  of 
everything,  I  fell  upon  card  box  making,  and  here  I  am 
at  cases  for  the  lace  and  buttons  of  the  national  guard  ; 
it  is  work  of  little  profit,  but  it  is  within  the  capacity  of 
all.  By  getting  up  at  four  and  working  till  eight,  I  earn 
sixty-five  centimes  ;  my  lodging  and  bowl  of  soup  take 
fifty  of  them,  and  there  are  three  sous  over  for  luxuries. 
So  I  am  richer  than  France  herself,  for  I  have  no  deficit 
in  my  budget ;  and  I  continue  to  serve  her,  as  I  save 
her  lace  and  buttons." 

At  these  words  Father  Chaufour  looked  at  me  with 
a  smile,  and  with  his  great  scissors  began  cutting  the 
green  paper  again  for  his  card-board  cases.  My  heart 
was  touched,  and  I  remained  lost  in  thought. 

Here  is  still  another  member  of  that  sacred  phalanx 
who,  in  the  battle  of  life,  always  march  in  front  for  the 
example  and  the  salvation  of  the  world  !  Each  of  these 
brave  soldiers  has  his  war-cry  ;  for  this  one  it  is  "  Coun- 
try," for  that  "  Home,"    for  a  third  "  Mankind  "  ;    but 


154 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


they  all  follow  the  same  standard — that  of  duty  ;  for  all 
the  same  divine  law  reigns — that  of  self-sacrifice.  To 
love  something  more  than  one's  self — that  is  the  secret 
of  all  that  is  great ;  to  know  how  to  live  for  others — 
that  is  the  aim  of  all  noble  souls. 


CHAPTER    XI. 
MORAL    USE   OF    INVENTORIES. 

November  ijth,  nine  o  clock  P.  M. — I  had  well  stopped 
up  the  chinks  of  my  window ;  my  little  carpet  was 
nailed  down  in  its  place  ;  my  lamp,  provided  with  its 
shade,  cast  a  subdued  light  around  ;  and  my  stove  made 
a  low  murmuring  sound,  as  it  some  live  creature  was 
sharing  my  hearth  with  me. 

All  was  silent  around  me.  But  out  of  doors  the 
snow  and  rain  swept  the  roofs,  and  with  a  low  rushing 
sound  ran  along  the  gurgling  gutters ;  sometimes  a  gust 
of  wind  forced  itself  beneath  the  tiles,  which  rattled 
together  like  castanets,  and  afterward  it  was  lost  in  the 
empty  corridor.  Then  a  slight  and  pleasurable  shiver 
thrilled  through  my  veins  :  I  drew  the  flaps  of  my  old 
wadded  dressing-gown  round  me,  1  pulled  my  thread- 
bare velvet  cap  over  my  eyes,  and,  letting  myself  sink 
deeper  into  my  easv-chair,  while  my  feet  basked  in  the 
heat  and   li<rht   which   shone   through   the    door  of    the 


1 56 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN   PARIS. 


stove,  I  gave  myself  up  to  a  sensation  of  enjoyment, 
made  more  lively  by  the  consciousness  of  the  storm 
which  raged  without.  My  eyes,  swimming  in  a  sort  of 
mist,  wandered  over  all  the  details  of  my  peaceful 
abode ;  they  passed  from  my  prints  to  my  bookcase, 
resting  upon  the  little  chintz  sofa,  the  white  curtains  of 
the  iron  bedstead,  and  the  portfolio  of  loose  papers — 
those  archives  of  the  attics  ;  and  then,  returning  to  the 
book  I  held  in  my  hand,  they  attempted  to  seize  once 
more  the  thread  of  the  reading  which  had  been  thus 
interrupted. 

In  fact  this  book,  the  subject  of  which  had  at  first 
interested  me,  had  become  painful  to  me.  I  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  pictures  of  the  writer  were  too 
sombre.  His  description  of  the  miseries  of  the  world 
appeared  exaggerated  to  me  ;  I  could  not  believe  in 
such  excess  of  poverty  and  of  suffering  ;  neither  God 
nor  man  could  show  themselves  so  harsh  toward  the 
sons  of  Adam.  The  author  had  yielded  to  an  artistic 
temptation  :  he  was  making  a  show  of  the  sufferings  of 
humanity,  as  Nero  burnt  Rome  for  the  sake  of  the  pict- 
uresque. 

Taken  altogether,  this  poor  human  house,  so  often 
repaired,  so  much  criticised,  is  still  a  pretty  good 
abode  ;  we  may  find  enough  in  it  to  satisfy  our  wants, 
if  we  know  how  to  set  bounds  to  them ;  the  happi- 
ness of  the  wise  man  costs  but  little,  and  asks  but  little 
space. 

These  consoling  reflections  became  more  and  more 
confused.     At  last  my  book  fell  on  the  ground  without 


I  saw  again  my  mother's  gentle  face. 


MORAL    USE   OF  INVENTORIES.  i^y 

my  having  the  resolution  to  stoop  and  take  it  up  again ; 
and  insensibly  overcome  by  the  luxury  of  the  silence, 
the  subdued  light,  and  the  warmth,  I  fell  asleep. 

I  remained  for  some  time  lost  in  the  sort  of  insensi- 
bility belonging  to  a  first  sleep  ;  at  last  some  vague  and 
broken  sensation  came  over  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  day  grew  darker,  that  the  air  became  colder.  I  half 
perceived  bushes  covered  with  the  scarlet  berries  which 
foretell  the  coming  of  winter.  I  walked  on  a  dreary 
road,  bordered  here  and  there  with  juniper-trees  white 
with  frost.  Then  the  scene  suddenly  changed.  I  was 
in  the  diligence  :  the  cold  wind  shook  the  doors  and 
windows  ;  the  trees,  loaded  with  snow,  passed  by  like 
ghosts ;  in  vain  I  thrust  my  benumbed  feet  into  the 
crushed  straw.  At  last  the  carriage  stopped,  and,  bv 
one  of  those  stage  effects  so  common  in  sleep,  I  found 
myself  alone  in  a  barn,  without  a  fireplace,  and  open  to 
the  winds  on  all  sides.  I  saw  again  my  mother's  gentle 
face,  known  onlv  to  me  in  my  early  childhood,  the  noble 
and  stern  countenance  of  my  father,  the  little  fair  head 
of  my  sister,  who  was  taken  from  us  at  ten  years  old: 
all  my  dead  family  lived  again  around  me  ;  they  were 
there,  exposed  to  the  bitings  of  the  cold  and  to  the  pangs 
of  hunger.  My  mother  prayed  bv  the  resigned  old  man, 
and  my  sister,  rolled  up  on  some  rags  of  which  they  had 
made  her  a  bed,  cried  in  silence,  and  held  her  naked 
feet  in  her  little  blue  hands. 

It  was  a  page  from  the  book  I  had  just  read  trans- 
ferred into  my  own  existence. 

My  heart  was  oppressed  with  inexpressible  anguish. 


158  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN   PARIS. 

Crouched  in  a  corner,  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  this 
dismal  picture,  I  felt  the  cold  slowly  creeping  upon  me, 
and  I  said  to  myself  with  bitterness : 

"  Let  us  die,  since  poverty  is  a  dungeon  guarded  by 
suspicion,  apathy,  and  contempt,  and  from  which  it  is 
vain  to  try  to  escape ;  let  us  die,  since  there  is  no  place 
for  us  at  the  banquet  of  the  living  !  " 

And  I  tried  to  rise  to  join  my  mother  again,  and  to 
wait  at  her  feet  for  the  hour  of  release. 

This  effort  dispelled  my  dream,  and  I  awoke  with  a 
start. 

I  looked  around  me  ;  my  lamp  was  expiring,  the  fire 
in  my  stove  extinguished,  and  my  half-opened  door  was 
letting  in  an  icy  wind.  I  got  up,  with  a  shiver,  to  shut 
and  double-lock  it ;  then  I  made  for  the  alcove,  and 
went  to  bed  in  haste. 

But  the  cold  kept  me  awake  a  long  time,  and  my 
thoughts  continued  the  interrupted  dream. 

The  pictures  I  had  lately  accused  of  exaggeration 
now  seemed  but  a  too  faithful  representation  of  reality  ; 
and  I  went  to  sleep  without  being  able  to  recover  my 
optimism — or  my  warmth. 

Thus  did  a  cold  stove  and  a  badly  closed  door  alter 
my  point  of  view.  All  went  well  when  my  blood  cir- 
culated properly  ;  all  looked  gloomy  when  the  cold 
laid  hold  on  me. 

This  reminds  me  of  the  story  of  the  duchess  who 
was  obliged  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  neighbouring  convent 
on  a  winter's  day.  The  convent  was  poor,  there  was  no 
wood,  and  the  monks  had  nothing  but  their  discipline 


MORAL    USE    OF  INVENTORIES. 


159 


and  the  ardour  of  their  prayers  to  keep  out  the  cold. 
The  duchess,  who  was  shivering  with  cold,  returned 
home,  greatly  pitying  the  poor  monks.  While  the 
servants  were  taking  off  her  cloak  and  adding  two  more 
logs  to  her  fire,  she  called  for  her  steward,  whom  she 
ordered  to  send  some  wood  to  the  convent  immediately. 
She  then  had  her  couch  moved  close  to  the  fireside,  the 
warmth  of  which  soon  revived  her.  The  recollection  of 
what  she  had  just  suffered  was  speedily  lost  in  her 
present  comfort,  when  the  steward  came  in  again  to  ask 
how  many  loads  of  wood  he  was  to  send. 

"  Oh  !  you  may  wait,"  said  the  great  lady  carelessly  ; 
"  the  weather  is  very  much  milder." 

Thus,  man's  judgments  are  formed  less  from  reason 
than  from  sensation  ;  and  as  sensation  comes  to  him 
from  the  outward  world,  so  he  finds  himself  more  or 
less  under  its  influence  ;  by  little  and  little  he  imbibes  a 
portion  of  his  habits  and  feelings  from  it. 

It  is  not  then  without  cause  that,  when  we  wish  to 
judge  of  a  stranger  beforehand,  we  look  for  indications 
of  his  character  in  the  circumstances  which  surround 
him.  The  things  among  which  we  live  are  necessarily 
made  to  take  our  image,  and  we  unconsciously  leave  in 
them  a  thousand  impressions  of  our  minds.  As  we  can 
judge  by  an  empty  bed  of  the  height  and  attitude  of 
him  who  has  slept  in  it,  so  the  abode  of  every  man  dis- 
covers to  a  close  observer  the  extent  of  his  intelligence 
and  the  feelings  of  his  heart.  Bernardin  de  St.-Pierre 
has  related  the  story  of  a  young  girl  who  refused  a 
suitor  because  he  would  never  have  flowers  or  domestic 


x6o  AN  A  TTIC  PHIIOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

animals  in  his  house.  Perhaps  the  sentence  was  severe, 
but  not  without  reason.  We  may  presume  that  a  man 
insensible  to  beauty  and  to  humble  affection  must  be  ill 
prepared  to  feel  the  enjoyments  of  a  happy  marriage. 

i/f.th,  seven  o'clock  P.  M. — This  morning,  as  I  was 
opening  my  journal  to  write,  I  had  a  visit  from  our  old 
cashier. 

His  sight  is  not  so  good  as  it  was,  his  hand  begins  to 
shake,  and  the  work  he  was  able  to  do  formerly  is  now 
becoming  somewhat  laborious  to  him.  I  had  under- 
taken to  write  out  some  of  his  papers,  and  he  came  for 
those  I  had  finished. 

We  conversed  a  long  time  by  the  stove,  while  he 
was  drinking  a  cup  of  coffee  which  I  made  him  take. 

M.  Rateau  is  a  sensible  man,  who  has  observed 
much  and  speaks  little ;  so  that  he  has  always  some- 
thing to  say. 

While  looking  over  the  accounts  I  had  prepared  for 
him,  his  looks  fell  upon  my  journal,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  acknowledge  that  in  this  way  I  wrote  a  diary  of  my 
actions  and  thoughts  every  evening  for  private  use. 
From  one  thing  to  another,  I  began  speaking  to  him  of 
my  dream  the  day  before,  and  my  reflections  about  the 
influence  of  outward  objects  upon  our  ordinary  senti- 
ments.    He  smiled. 

"Ah  !  you  too  have  my  superstitions"  he  said  quietly. 
"  1  have  always  believed,  like  you,  that  you  may  knozv 
the  game  by  the  lair  :  it  is  only  necessary  to  have  tact 
and  experience  ;  but  without  them  we  commit  ourselves 
to  many  rash  judgements.     For  my   part,  I    have  been 


MORAL    USE   OF  INVENTORIES.  ^i 

guilty  of  this  more  than  once,  but  sometimes  I  have 
also  drawn  a  right  conclusion.  I  recollect  especially  an 
adventure  which  goes  as  far  back  as  the  first  years  of 
my  youth — " 

He  stopped.  I  looked  at  him  as  if  I  waited  for  his 
story,  and  he  told  it  me  at  once. 

At  this  time  he  was  still  but  third  clerk  to  an  attor- 
ney at  Orleans.  His  master  had  sent  him  to  Montargis 
on  different  affairs,  and  he  intended  to  return  in  the 
diligence  the  same  evening,  after  having  received  the 
amount  of  a  bill  at  a  neighbouring  town  ;  but  they  kept 
him  at  the  debtor's  house,  and  when  he  was  able  to  set 
out  the  day  had  already  closed. 

Fearing  not  to  be  able  to  reach  Montargis  in  good 
time,  he  took  a  cross-road  they  pointed  out  to  him.  Un- 
fortunately the  fog  increased,  no  star  was  visible  in  the 
heavens,  and  the  darkness  became  so  great  that  he  lost 
his  road.  He  tried  to  retrace  his  steps,  passed  twenty 
footpaths,  and  at  last  found  himself  completely  astray. 

After  the  vexation  of  losing  his  place  in  the  dili- 
gence, came  the  feeling  of  uneasiness  as  to  his  situation. 
He  was  alone,  on  foot,  lost  in  a  forest,  without  any 
means  of  finding  his  right  road  again,  and  with  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  about  him,  for  which  he  was 
responsible.  His  anxiety  was  increased  by  his  inexpe- 
rience. The  idea  of  a  forest  was  connected  in  his  mind 
with  so  many  adventures  of  robbery  and  murder,  that 
he  expected  some  fatal  encounter  every  instant. 

To  say  the  truth,  his  situation  was  not  encouraging. 
The  place  was  not  considered  safe,  and  for  some  time 


l62  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

past  there  had  been  rumours  of  the  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  several  horse-dealers,  though  there  was  no  trace 
of  any  crime  having  been  committed. 

Our  young  traveller,  with  his  eyes  staring  forward, 
and  his  ears  listening,  followed  a  footpath  which  he 
supposed  might  take  him  to  some  house  or  road  ;  but 
woods  always  succeeded  to  woods.  At  last  he  per- 
ceived a  light  at  a  distance,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  reached  the  high-road. 

A  single  house,  the  light  from  which  had  attracted 
him,  appeared  at  a  little  distance.  He  was  going  to- 
ward the  entrance  gate  of  the  court-yard  when  the  trot 
of  a  horse  made  him  turn  his  head.  A  man  on  horse- 
back had  just  appeared  at  the  turning  of  the  road,  and 
in  an  instant  was  close  to  him. 

The  first  words  he  addressed  to  the  young  man 
showed  him  to  be  the  farmer  himself.  He  related  how 
he  had  lost  himself,  and  learned  from  the  countryman 
that  he  was  on  the  road  to  Pithiviers.  Montargis  was 
three  leagues  behind  him. 

The  fog  had  insensibly  changed  into  a  drizzling  rain, 
which  was  beginning  to  wet  the  young  clerk  through  ; 
he  seemed  afraid  of  the  distance  he  had  still  to  go,  and 
the  horseman,  who  saw  his  hesitation,  invited  him  to 
come  into  the  farm-house. 

It  had  something  of  the  look  of  a  fortress.  Sur- 
rounded by  a  pretty  high  wall,  it  could  not  be  seen 
except  through  the  bars  of  the  great  gate,  which  was 
carefully  closed.  The  farmer,  who  had  got  off  his 
horse,  did    not   go    near   it,  but,  turning  to  the  right, 


MORAL    USE   OF  INVENTORIES.  {^ 

reached  another  entrance  closed  in  the  same  way,  but 
of  which  he  had  the  key. 

Hardly  had  he  passed  the  threshold  when  a  terrible 
barking  resounded  from  each  end  of  the  yard.  The 
farmer  told  his  guest  to  fear  nothing,  and  showed  him 
the  dogs  chained  up  to  their  kennels ;  both  were  of  an 
extraordinary  size,  and  so  savage  that  the  sight  of  their 
master  himself  could  not  quiet  them. 

A  boy,  attracted  by  their  barking,  came  out  of  the 
house  and  took  the  farmer's  horse.  The  latter  began 
questioning  him  about  some  orders  he  had  given  before 
he  left  the  house,  and  went  toward  the  stable  to  see  that 
they  had  been  executed. 

Thus  left  alone,  our  clerk  looked  about  him. 

A  lantern  which  the  boy  had  placed  on  the  ground 
cast  a  dim  light  over  the  court-yard.  All  around  seemed 
empty  and  deserted.  Not  a  trace  was  visible  of  the 
disorder  often  seen  in  a  country  farm-yard,  and  which 
shows  a  temporary  cessation  of  the  work  which  is  soon 
to  be  resumed  again.  Neither  a  cart  forgotten  where 
the  horses  had  been  unharnessed,  nor  sheaves  of  corn 
heaped  up  ready  for  threshing,  nor  a  plough  overturned 
in  a  corner  and  half  hidden  under  the  freshly  cut  clover. 
The  yard  was  swept,  the  barns  shut  up  and  padlocked. 
Not  a  single  vine  creeping  up  the  walls ;  everywhere 
stone,  wood,  and  iron  ! 

He  took  up  the  lantern  and  went  up  to  the  corner 
of  the  house.  Behind  was  a  second  yard,  where  he 
heard  the  barking  of  a  third  dog,  and  a  covered  well 
was  built  in  the  middle  of  it. 


164  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

Our  traveller  looked  in  vain  for  the  little  farm  gar- 
den, where  pumpkins  of  different  sorts  creep  along  the 
ground,  or  where  the  bees  from  the  hives  hum  under 
the  hedges  of  honeysuckle  and  elder.  Verdure  and 
flowers  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  did  not  even 
perceive  the  sight  of  a  poultry-yard  or  pigeon-house. 
The  habitation  of  his  host  was  everywhere  wanting  in 
that  which  makes  the  grace,  the  life,  and  the  charm  of 
the  country. 

The  young  man  thought  that  his  host  must  be  of  a 
very  careless  or  a  very  calculating  disposition,  to  con- 
cede so  little  to  domestic  enjoyments  and  the  pleasures 
of  the  eye ;  and  judging,  in  spite  of  himself,  by  what  he 
saw,  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  distrust  of  his  char- 
acter. 

In  the  mean  time  the  farmer  returned  from  the 
stables,  and  made  him  enter  the  house. 

The  inside  of  the  farm-house  corresponded  to  its 
outside.  The  whitewashed  walls  had  no  other  orna- 
ment than  a  row  of  guns  of  all  sizes ;  the  massive  furni- 
ture scarcely  redeemed  its  clumsy  appearance  by  its 
great  solidity.  The  cleanliness  was  doubtful,  and  the 
absence  of  all  minor  conveniences  proved  that  a  woman's 
care  was  wanting  in  the  household  concerns.  The 
young  clerk  learned  that  the  farmer,  in  fact,  lived  here 
with  no  one  but  his  two  sons. 

Of  this,  indeed,  the  signs  were  plain  enough.  A 
table  with  a  cloth  laid,  that  no  one  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  clear  away,  was  left  near  the  window.  The 
plates  and   dishes  were  scattered  upon  it  without  any 


MORAL    USE    OF  INVENTORIES.  ^5 

order,  and  loaded  with  potato  parings  and  half-picked 
bones.  Several  empty  bottles  emitted  an  odour  of 
brandy,  mixed  with  the  pungent  smell  of  tobacco 
smoke. 

After  having  seated  his  guest,  the  farmer  lit  his  pipe, 
and  his  two  sons  resumed  their  work  by  the  fireside. 
Now  and  then  the  silence  was  just  broken  by  a  short 
remark,  answered  by  a  word  or  an  exclamation  ;  and 
then  all  became  as  mute  as  before. 

"  From  my  childhood,"  said  the  old  cashier,  "  I  had 
been  very  sensible  to  the  impression  of  outward  ob- 
jects ;  later  in  life  reflection  had  taught  me  to  study  the 
causes  of  these  impressions  rather  than  to  drive  them 
away.  I  set  myself,  then,  to  examine  everything  around 
me  with  great  attention. 

"  Below  the  guns,  I  had  remarked  on  entering,  some 
wolf-traps  were  suspended,  and  to  one  of  them  still 
hung  the  mangled  remains  of  a  wolf's  paw,  which  they 
had  not  yet  taken  off  from  the  iron  teeth.  The  black- 
ened chimneypiece  was  ornamented  by  an  owl  and  a 
raven  nailed  on  the  wall,  their  wings  extended,  and 
their  throats  with  a  huge  nail  through  each  ;  a  fox's 
skin,  freshly  flayed,  was  spread  before  the  window  ; 
and  a  larder  hook,  fixed  into  the  principal  beam,  held 
a  headless  goose,  whose  body  swayed  about  over  our 
heads. 

"  My  eyes  were  offended  by  all  these  details,  and  I 
turned  them  again  upon  my  hosts.  The  father,  who  sat 
opposite  to  me,  only  interrupted  his  smoking  to  pour 
out  his  drink,  or  address  some  reprimand  to  his  sons. 


x66  an  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  eldest  of  these  was  scraping  a  deep  bucket,  and  the 
bloody  scrapings,  which  he  threw  into  the  fire  every 
instant,  filled  the  room  with  a  disagreeable  fetid  smell ; 
the  second  son  was  sharpening  some  butcher's  knives. 
I  learned  from  a  word  dropped  from  the  father  that 
they  were  preparing  to  kill  a  pig  the  next  day. 

"  These  occupations  and  the  whole  aspect  of  things 
inside  the  house  told  of  such  habitual  coarseness  in 
their  way  of  living  as  seemed  to  explain,  while  it  formed 
the  fitting  counterpart  of,  the  forbidding  gloominess  of 
the  outside.  My  astonishment  by  degrees  changed  into 
disgust,  and  my  disgust  into  uneasiness.  I  cannot  de- 
tail the  whole  chain  of  ideas  which  succeeded  one  an- 
other in  my  imagination  ;  but,  yielding  to  an  impulse  I 
could  not  overcome,  I  got  up,  declaring  I  would  go  on 
my  road  again. 

"  The  farmer  made  some  effort  to  keep  me;  he  spoke 
of  the  rain,  of  the  darkness,  and  of  the  length  of  the 
way.  I  replied  to  all  by  the  absolute  necessity  there 
was  for  my  being  at  Montargis  that  very  night ;  and 
thanking  him  for  his  brief  hospitality,  I  set  off  again  in 
a  haste  which  might  well  have  confirmed  the  truth  of 
my  words  to  him. 

"  However,  the  freshness  of  the  night  and  the  exer- 
cise of  walking  did  not  fail  to  change  the  directions  of 
my  thoughts.  When  away  from  the  objects  which  had 
awakened  such  lively  disgust  in  me,  I  felt  it  gradually 
diminishing.  I  began  to  smile  at  the  susceptibility  of 
my  feelings,  and  then,  in  proportion  as  the  rain  became 
heavier  and  colder,  these  strictures  on  myself  assumed 


MORAL    USE    OF  INVENTORIES.  ]6j 

a  tone  of  ill  temper.  I  silently  accused  myself  of  the 
absurdity  of  mistaking-  sensation  for  admonitions  of  my 
reason.  After  all,  were  not  the  farmer  and  his  sons  free 
to  live  alone,  to  hunt,  to  keep  dogs,  and  to  kill  a  pig  ? 
Where  was  the  crime  of  it  ?  With  less  nervous  suscep- 
tibility, I  should  have  accepted  the  shelter  they  offered 
me,  and  I  should  now  be  sleeping  snugly  on  a  truss  of 
straw,  instead  of  walking  with  difficult}'  through  the 
cold  and  drizzling  rain.  I  thus  continued  to  reproach 
myself,  until  toward  morning  I  arrived  at  Montargis, 
jaded  and  benumbed  with  cold. 

"When,  however,  I  got  up  refreshed,  toward  the 
middle  of  the  next  day,  I  instinctively  returned  to  my 
first  opinion.  The  appearance  of  the  farm-house  pre- 
sented itself  to  me  under  the  same  repulsive  colours 
which  the  evening  before  had  determined  me  to  make 
my  escape  from  it.  Reason  itself  remained  silent  when 
reviewing  all  those  coarse  details,  and  was  lorced  to 
recognise  in  them  the  indications  of  a  low  nature,  or 
else  the  presence  of  some  baleful  influence. 

"  I  went  away  the  next  day  without  being  able  to 
learn  anything  concerning  the  farmer  or  his  sons ;  but 
the  recollection  of  my  adventure  remained  deeply  fixed 
in  my  memory. 

"  Ten  vears  afterward  I  was  travelling  in  the  dili- 
gence through  the  department  of  the  Loiret ;  1  was 
leaning  from  the  window,  and  looking  at  some  coppice 
ground  now  for  the  first  time  brought  under  cultiva- 
tion,  and  the  mode  of  clearing  which  one  of  my  trave- 
ling companions  was  explaining  to  me,  when  my  e3'es 


1 68  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

fell  upon  a  walled  enclosure,  with  an  iron-barred  gate. 
Inside  it  I  perceived  a  house  with  all  the  blinds  closed, 
and  which  I  immediately  recollected.  It  was  the  farm- 
house where  I  had  been  sheltered.  I  eagerly  pointed 
it  out  to  my  companion,  and  asked  who  lived  in  it. 

'"Nobody,  just  now,'  replied  he. 

" '  But  was  it  not  kept,  some  years  ago,  by  a  farmer 
and  his  two  sons  ?  ' 

" '  The  Turreaus,'  said  my  travelling  companion, 
looking  at  me  ;  '  did  you  know  them  ?  ' 

"  '  I  saw  them  once.' 

"  He  shook  his  head. 

'"Yes,  yes!'  resumed  he;  'for  many  years  they 
lived  there  like  wolves  in  their  den  ;  they  merely  knew 
how  to  till  land,  kill  game,  and  drink.  The  father  man- 
aged the  house,  but  men  living  alone,  without  women  to 
love  them,  without  children  to  soften  them,  and  without 
God  to  make  them  think  of  heaven,  always  turn  into 
wild  beasts,  you  see  ;  so  one  morning  the  eldest  son, 
who  had  been  drinking  too  much  brandy,  would  not 
harness  the  plough-horses  ;  his  father  struck  him  with 
his  whip,  and  the  son,  who  was  mad  drunk,  shot  him 
dead  with  his  gun.'  " 

16th,  P.  M. — I  have  been  thinking  of  the  story  of  the 
old  cashier  these  two  days  ;  it  came  so  opportunely 
upon  the  reflections  my  dream  had  suggested  to  me. 

Have  I  not  an  important  lesson  to  learn  from  all 
this  ? 

If  our  sensations  have  an  incontestable  influence 
upon  our  judgements,  how  comes  it  that  we  are  so  little 


MORAL    USE    OF  INVENTORIES.  jfo 

careful  of  those  things  which  awaken  or  modify  these 
sensations  ?  The  external  world  is  always  reflected  in 
us  as  in  a  mirror,  and  fills  our  minds  with  pictures 
which,  unconsciously  to  ourselves,  become  the  germs  of 
our  opinions  and  of  our  rules  of  conduct.  All  the  ob- 
jects which  surround  us  are  then,  in  reality,  so  many 
talismans  from  whence  good  and  bad  influences  are 
emitted.  It  is  for  us  to  choose  them  wisely,  so  as  to 
create  a  healthy  atmosphere  for  our  minds. 

Feeling  convinced  of  this  truth,  I  set  about  making  a 
survey  of  my  attic. 

The  first  object  on  which  my  eyes  rest  is  an  old  map 
of  the  history  of  the  principal  monastery  in  my  native 
province.  I  had  unrolled  it  with  much  satisfaction,  and 
placed  it  on  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  wall. 
Why  had  I  given  it  this  place  ?  Ought  this  sheet  of  old 
worm-eaten  parchment  to  be  of  so  much  value  to  me, 
who  am  neither  an  antiquary  nor  a  scholar  ?  Is  not  its 
real  importance  in  my  sight  that  one  of  the  abbots  who 
founded  it  bore  my  name,  and  that  I  shall,  perchance, 
be  able  to  make  myself  a  genealogical  tree  of  it  for  the 
edification  of  my  visitors?  While  writing  this,  I  feel 
my  own  blushes.  Come,  down  with  the  map !  let  us 
banish  it  into  my  deepest  drawer. 

As  I  passed  my  glass,  I  perceived  several  visiting 
cards  complacently  displayed  in  the  frame.  By  what 
chance  is  it  that  there  are  only  names  that  make  a  show 
among  them  ?  Here  is  a  Polish  count — a  retired  colonel 
— the  deputy  of  my  department.  Quick,  quick,  into  the 
fire  with  these  proofs  of  vanity  !  and  let  us  put  this  card 


170 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


in  the  handwriting  of  our  office  boj,  this  direction  for 
cheap  dinners,  and  the  receipt  of  the  broker  where  I 
bought  my  last  arm-chair,  in  their  place.  These  indica- 
tions of  my  poverty  will  serve,  as  Montaigne  says,  mater 
ma  supcrbe,  and  will  always  make  me  recollect  the  mod- 
esty in  which  the  dignity  of  the  lowly  consists. 

I  have  stopped  before  the  prints  hanging  upon  the 
wall.  This  large  and  smiling  Pomona,  seated  on  sheaves 
of  corn,  and  whose  basket  is  overflowing  with  fruit,  only 
produces  thoughts  of  joy  and  plenty  ;  I  was  looking  at 
her  the  other  day,  when  I  fell  asleep  denying  such  a 
thing  as  misery.  Let  us  give  her  as  companion  this 
picture  of  Winter,  in  which  everything  tells  of  sorrow 
and  suffering :  one  picture  will  modify  the  other. 

And  this  Happy  Family  of  Greuze's !  What  joy  in 
the  children's  eyes!  what  sweet  repose  in  the  young 
woman's  face  !  what  religious  feeling  in  the  grand- 
father's countenance  !  May  God  preserve  their  happi- 
ness to  them  !  but  let  us  hang  by  its  side  the  picture  of 
this  mother,  who  weeps  over  an  empty  cradle.  Human 
life  has  two  faces,  both  of  which  we  must  dare  to  con- 
template in  their  turns. 

Let  me  hide,  too,  these  ridiculous  monsters  which 
ornament  my  chimneypiece.  Plato  has  said  that  the 
beautiful  is  nothing  else  tlian  the  visible  form  of  the  good. 
If  it  is  so,  the  ugly  should  be  the  visible  form  of  the 
evil,  and,  by  constantly  beholding  it,  the  mind  insensibly 
deteriorates. 

But  above  all,  in  order  to  cherish  the  feelings  of 
kindness  and  pity,  let  me  hang  at  the   foot  of  my  bed 


MORAL    USE    OF  INVENTORIES. 


171 


this  affecting  picture  of  the  Last  Sleep  !     Never  have  I 
been  able  to  look  at  it  without  feeling  my  heart  touched. 

An  old  woman,  clothed  in  rags,  is  lying  by  a  road- 
side ;  her  stick  is  at  her  feet,  and  her  head  rests  upon 
a  stone ;  she  has  fallen  asleep  ;  her  hands  are  clasped  ; 
murmuring  a  prayer  of  her  childhood,  she  sleeps  her 
last  sleep,  she  dreams  her  last  dream  ! 

She  sees  herself,  again  a  strong  and 
happy  child,  keeping  the  sheep  on  the 
common,  gathering  the  berries  from  the  -.,. 

hedges,  singing,  curtseying  to  passers- 
by,  and  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross  when  the  first  star  appears 
in  the  heavens  !     Happy  time, 


f 
1 


filled  with  fragrance  and 
sunshine !     She  wants 
nothing  yet,  for  she 
is   ignorant  of  what 
there  is  to  wish  for. 
But  see  her  grown 
up ;  the  time  is  come 
for    working    brave- 
ly ;     she    must     cut 
the  corn,  thresh  the 

wheat,  carry  the  bundles  of  flowering  clover  or  branches 
of  withered  leaves  to  the  farm.  If  her  toil  is  hard, 
hope  shines  like  a  sun  over  everything  and  it  wipes 
the  drops  of  sweat  away.  The  growing  girl  already 
sees  that  life  is  a  task;  but  she  still  sings  as  she  ful- 
fils it. 


172 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


By-and-by  the  burthen  becomes  heavier ;  she  is  a 
wife,  she  is  a  mother !  She  must  economise  the  bread 
of  to-day,  have  her  eye  upon  the  morrow,  take  care  of 
the  sick,  and  sustain  the  feeble  ;  she  must  act,  in  short, 
that  part  of  an  earthly  Providence,  so  easy  when  God 
gives  us  his  aid,  so  hard  when  He  forsakes  us.  The 
woman  is  still  strong,  but  she  is  anxious ;  she  sings  no 
longer  ! 

Yet  a  few  years,  and  all  is  overcast.  The  husband's 
health  is  broken  ;  his  wife  sees  him  pine  away  by  the 
now  fireless  hearth  ;  cold  and  hunger  finish  what  sick- 
ness had  begun  ;  he  dies,  and  his  widow  sits  on  the 
ground  by  the  coffin  provided  by  the  charity  of  others, 
pressing  her  two  half-naked  little  ones  in  her  arms. 
She  dreads  the  future,  she  weeps,  and  she  droops  her 
head. 

At  last  the  future  has  come;  the  children  are  grown 
up,  but  they  are  no  longer  with  her.  Her  son  is  fight- 
ing under  his  country's  flag,  and  his  sister  is  gone. 
Both  have  been  lost  to  her  for  a  long  time — perhaps 
forever  ;  and  the  strong  girl,  the  brave  wife,  the  coura- 
geous mother,  is  from  henceforth  but  an  aged  beggar- 
woman,  without  a  family  and  without  a  home  !  She 
weeps  no  more,  sorrow  has  subdued  her  ;  she  surren- 
ders, and  waits  for  death. 

Death,  that  faithful  friend  of  the  wretched,  is  come : 
not  hideous  and  with  mockery,  as  superstition  represents, 
but  beautiful,  smiling,  and  crowned  with  stars  !  The 
gentle  phantom  stoops  to  the  beggar ;  its  pale  lips  mur- 
mur a  few  airy  words,  which  announce  to  her  the  end 


MORAL    USE   OF  INVENTORIES. 


173 


of  her  labours  ;  a  peaceful  joy  comes  over  the  aged 
beggar-woman,  and,  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
great  Deliverer,  she  has  passed  unconsciously  from  her 
last  earthly  sleep  to  her  eternal  rest. 

Lie  there,  thou  poor  way- wearied  woman  !  The 
leaves  will  serve  thee  for  a  winding-sheet,  Night  will 
shed  her  tears  of  dew  over  thee,  and  the  birds  will  sing 
sweetly  by  thy  remains.  Thy  visit  here  below  will 
not  have  left  more  trace  than  their  flight  through  the 
air  ;  thy  name  is  already  forgotten,  and  the  only  legacy 
thou  hast  to  leave  is  the  hawthorn  stick  lying  forgotten 
at  thy  feet ! 

Well !  some  one  will  take  it  up — some  soldier  of  that 
great  human  host  which  is  scattered  abroad  by  misery 
or  by  vice ;  for  thou  art  not  an  exception,  thou  art 
an  instance  ;  and  under  the  same  sun  which  shines  so 
pleasantly  upon  all,  in  the  midst  of  these  flowering  vine- 
yards, this  ripe  corn,  and  these  wealthy  cities,  entire 
generations  suffer,  succeed  each  other,  and  still  be- 
queath to  each  the  beggar's  stick  ! 

The  sight  of  this  sad  picture  shall  make  me  more 
grateful  for  what  God  has  given  me,  and  more  compas- 
sionate for  those  whom  He  has  treated  with  less  indul- 
gence. It  shall  be  a  lesson  and  a  subject  for  reflection 
for  me. 

Ah!  if  we  would  watch  for  everything  that  might 
improve  and  instruct  us;  if  the  arrangements  of  our 
daily  life  were  so  disposed  as  to  be  a  constant  school  for 
our  minds  ;  but  oftenest  we  take  no  heed  of  them.  Man 
is  an  eternal  mystery  to  himself;   his  own  person  is  a 


174 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


house  into  which  he  never  enters,  and  of  which  he 
studies  the  outside  alone.  Each  of  us  need  have  con. 
tinually  before  him  the  famous  inscription  which  once 
instructed  Socrates,  and  which  was  engraved  on  the 
walls  of  Delphi  by  an  unknown  hand  : 

"  KNOW   THYSELF." 


djgf. 


CHAPTER    XII. 
THE   END   OF   THE    YEAR. 

December  yztJi,  v.  M. — I  was  in  bed,  and  hardly  re- 
covered from  the  delirious  fever  which  had  kept  me  for 
so  long  between  life  and  death.  My  weakened  brain 
was  making  efforts  to  recover  its  activity  ;  my  thoughts, 
like  rays  of  light  struggling  through  the  clouds,  were 
still  confused  and  imperfect;  at  times  I  felt  a  return  of 
the  dizziness  which  made  a  chaos  of  all  my  ideas,  and  I 
floated,  so  to  speak,  between  alternate  fits  of  mental 
wandering  and  consciousness. 

Sometimes  everything  seemed  plain  to  me,  like  the 
prospect  which,  from  the  top  of  some  high  mountain, 
opens  before  us  in  clear  weather.  We  distinguish 
water,  woods,  villages,  cattle,  even  the  cottage  perched 
on  the  edge  of  the  ravine ;  then  suddenly  there  comes 
a  gust  of  wind  laden  with  mist,  and  all  is  confused  and 
indistinct. 


176  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Thus,  yielding  to  the  oscillations  of  a  half-recovered 
reason,  I  allowed  my  mind  to  follow  its  various  impulses 
without  troubling  myself  to  separate  the  real  from  the 
imaginary  ;  I  glided  softly  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
my  dreams  and  waking  thoughts  succeeded  closely  upon 
one  another. 

Now,  while  my  mind  is  wandering  in  this  unsettled 
state,  see,  underneath  the  clock  which  measures  the 
hours  with  its  loud  ticking,  a  female  figure  appears  be- 
fore me ! 

At  first  sight  I  saw  enough  to  satisfy  me  that  she 
was  not  a  daughter  of  Eve.  In  her  eye  was  the  last 
flash  of  an  expiring  star,  and  her  face  had  the  pallor  of 
an  heroic  death  struggle.  She  was  dressed  in  a  drapery 
of  a  thousand  changing  colours  of  the  brightest  and  the 
most  sombre  hues,  and  she  held  a  withered  garland  in 
her  hand. 

After  having  contemplated  her  for  some  moments,  I 
asked  her  name,  and  what  brought  her  into  my  attic. 
Her  eyes,  which  were  following  the  movements  of  the 
clock,  turned  toward  me,  and  she  replied  : 

"  You  see  in  me  the  year  which  is  just  drawing  to 
its  end  ;  I  come  to  receive  your  thanks  and  your  fare- 
well." 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  in  surprise,  which  soon 
gave  place  to  bitter  resentment. 

"  Ah !  you  want  thanks,"  cried  I ;  "  but  first  let  me 
know  what  for  ? 

"  When  I  welcomed  your  coming,  I  was  still  young 
and  vigourous:  you  have  taken  from  me  each  day  some 


THE   END    OF    THE    YEAR. 


177 


little  of  my  strength,  and  you  have  ended  by  inflicting 
an  illness  upon  me ;  already,  thanks  to  you,  my  blood  is 
less  warm,  my  muscles  less  firm,  and  my  feet  less  agile 
than  before !  You  have  planted  the  germs  of  infirmity 
in  my  bosom  ;  there,  where  the  summer  flowers  of  life 
were  growing,  you  have  wickedly  sown  the  nettles  of 
old  age ! 

"And,  as  if  it  was  not  enough  to  weaken  my  body, 
you  have  also  diminished  the  powers  of  my  soul :  you 
have  extinguished  her  enthusiasm  ;  she  is  become  more 
sluggish  and  more  timid.  Formerly  her  eyes  took 
in  the  whole  of  mankind  in  their  generous  survey  ;  but 
you  have  made  her  near-sighted,  and  now  she  scarcely 
sees  beyond  herself ! 

"  That  is  what  you  have  done  for  my  spiritual  being: 
then  as  to  my  outward  existence,  see  to  what  grief, 
neglect,  and  misery  you  have  reduced  it  ! 

"  For  the  many  days  that  the  fever  has  kept  me 
chained  to  this  bed,  who  has  taken  care  of  this  home,  in 
which  I  placed  all  my  joy?  Shall  I  not  find  my  closets 
empty,  my  bookcase  stripped,  all  my  poor  treasures  lost 
through  negligence  or  dishonesty  ?  Where  are  the 
plants  I  cultivated,  the  birds  I  fed?  All  are  gone!  my 
attic  is  despoiled,  silent,  and  solitary  ! 

"As  it  is  only  for  the  last  few  moments  that  I  have 
returned  to  a  consciousness  of  what  surrounds  me,  1 
am  even  ignorant  who  has  nursed  me  during  my  long 
illness  !  Doubtless  some  hireling,  who  will  leave  when 
all  my  means  of  recompense  are  exhausted  ! 

"  And  what  will  my  masters,  for  whom   I  am  bound 


i78 


AX  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


to  work,  have  said  to  my  absence  ?  At  this  time  of  the 
year,  when  business  is  most  pressing,  can  they  have 
done  without  me,  will  they  even  have  tried  to  do  so  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  already  superseded  in  the  humble  situa- 
tion by  which  I  earned  my  daily  bread  !  And  it  is  thou 
— thou  alone,  wicked  daughter  of  Time — who  hast 
brought  all  these  misfortunes  upon  me  :  strength,  health, 
comfort,  work — thou  hast  taken  all  from  me.  I  have 
only  received  outrage  and  loss  from  thee,  and  yet  thou 
darest  to  claim  my  gratitude  ! 

"  Ah !  die  then,  since  thy  day  is  come ;  but  die 
despised  and  cursed  ;  and  may  I  write  on  thy  tomb  the 
epitaph  the  Arabian  poet  inscribed  upon  that  of  a  king : 

"  '  Rejoice,  thou  passer-by  :  he  whom  we  have  buried  here 
cannot  live  again.'  " 

•  I  was  awakened  by  a  hand  taking  mine  ;  and  open- 
ing my  eyes,  I  recognised  the  doctor. 

After  having  felt  my  pulse,  he  nodded  his  head,  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  looked  at  me,  rubbing 
his  nose  with  his  snuff-box.  I  have  since  learned  that 
this  was  a  sign  of  satisfaction  with  the  doctor. 

"  Well  !  so  we  wanted  old  snub-nose  to  carry  us  off  ?  " 
said  M.  Lambert,  in  his  half-joking,  half-scolding  way. 
"  What  the  deuce  of  a  hurry  we  were  in  !  It  was  neces- 
sary to  hold  you  back  with  both  arms  at  least !  " 

"Then  you  had  given  me  up,  doctor?"  asked  I, 
rather  alarmed. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  old  physician.  "  We  can't 
give  up   what  we  have  not  got ;  and  I  make  it  a  rule 


THE  END   OF    THE    YEAR.  xjg 

never  to  have  any  hope.  We  are  but  instruments  in  the 
hands  of  Providence,  and  each  of  us  should  say  with 
Ambroise  Pare  :  '  I  tend  him,  God  cures  him  ! '  ' 

il  May  He  be  blessed  then,  as  well  as  you,"  cried  I  ; 
"  and  may  my  health  come  back  with  the  new  year !  " 

M.  Lambert  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Begin  by  asking  yourself  for  it,"  resumed  he 
bluntly.  "  God  has  given  it  you,  and  it  is  your  own 
sense,  and  not  chance,  that  must  keep  it  for  you.  One 
would  think,  to  hear  people  talk,  that  sickness  comes 
upon  us  like  the  rain  or  the  sunshine,  without  one 
having  a  word  to  say  in  the  matter.  Before  we  com- 
plain of  being  ill  we  should  prove  that  we  deserve  to  be 
well." 

I  was  about  to  smile,  but  the  doctor  looked  angry. 

"Ah!  you  think  that  I  am  joking,"  resumed  he, 
raising  his  voice  ;  "  but  tell  me,  then,  which  of  us  gives 
his  health  the  same  attention  that  he  gives  to  his 
business  ?  Do  you  economise  your  strength  as  you 
economise  your  money  ?  Do  you  avoid  excess  and 
imprudence  in  the  one  case  with  the  same  care  as 
extravagance  or  foolish  speculations  in  the  other?  Do 
you  keep  as  regular  accounts  of  your  mode  of  living  as 
you  do  of  your  income  ?  Do  you  consider  every  even- 
ing what  has  been  wholesome  or  unwholesome  for  you, 
with  the  same  care  as  you  bring  to  the  examination  of 
vour  expenditure?  You  may  smile ;  but  have  you  not 
brousrht  this  illness  on  yourself  bv  a  thousand  indis- 
cretions  ?" 

I   began  to   protest    against  this,   and  asked   him    to 


l8o  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

point  out  these  indiscretions.  The  old  doctor  spread 
out  his  fingers,  and  began  to  reckon  upon  them  one  by 
one. 

"  Primo"  cried  he,  "  want  of  exercise.  You  live  here 
like  a  mouse  in  a  cheese,  without  air,  motion,  or  change. 
Consequently,  the  blood  circulates  badly,  the  fluids 
thicken,  the  muscles,  being  inactive,  do  not  claim  their 
share  of  nutrition,  the  stomach  flags,  and  the  brain 
grows  weary. 

"  Secundo.  Irregular  food.  Caprice  is  your  cook; 
your  stomach  a  slave  who  must  accept  what  you  give 
it,  but  who  presently  takes  a  sullen  revenge,  like  all 
slaves. 

"  Tertio.  Sitting  up  late.  Instead  of  using  the  night 
for  sleep,  you  spend  it  in  reading  ;  your  bedstead  is  a 
bookcase,  your  pillow  a  desk!  At  the  time  when  the 
wearied  brain  asks  for  rest,  you  lead  it  through  these 
nocturnal  orgies,  and  you  are  surprised  to  find  it  the 
worse  for  them  the  next  day. 

"  Quarto.  Luxurious  habits.  Shut  up  in  your  attic, 
you  insensibly  surround  yourself  with  a  thousand  ef- 
feminate indulgences.  You  must  have  list  for  your 
door,  a  blind  for  your  window,  a  carpet  for  your  feet, 
an  easy-chair  stuffed  with  wool  for  your  back,  your  fire 
lit  at  the  first  sign  of  cold,  and  a  shade  to  your  lamp  ; 
and,  thanks  to  all  these  precautions,  the  least  draught 
makes  you  catch  cold,  common  chairs  give  you  no  rest, 
and  you  must  wear  spectacles  to  support  the  light  of 
day.  You  have  thought  you  were  acquiring  comforts, 
and  you  have  only  contracted  infirmities. 


THE   END   OE    THE    YEAR.  j8i 

"  Quinto — " 

"  Ah  !  enough,  enough,  doctor  !  "  cried  1.  "  Pray, 
•do  not  carry  your  examination  further ;  do  not  attach  a 
sense  of  remorse  to  each  of  my  pleasures." 

The  old  doctor  rubbed  his  nose  with  his  snuff- 
box. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  more  gently,  and  rising  at  the 
same  time,  "  you  would  escape  from  the  truth.  You 
shrink  from  enquiry — a  proof  that  you  are  guilty.  Ha- 
bcmus  confitcntem  reum  !  But  at  least,  my  friend,  do 
not  go  on  laying  the  blame  on  Time,  like  an  old 
woman." 

Thereupon  he  again  felt  my  pulse,  and  took  his 
leave,  declaring  that  his  function  was  at  an  end,  and 
that  the  rest  depended  upon  myself. 

When  the  doctor  was  gone,  I  set  about  reflecting 
upon  what  he  had  said. 

Although  his  words  were  too  sweeping,  they  were 
not  the  less  true  in  the  main.  How  often  we  accuse 
chance  of  an  illness,  the  origin  of  which  we  should  seek 
in  ourselves!  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  let 
him  finish  the  examination  he  had  begun. 

But  is  there  not  another  of  more  importance — that 
which  concerns  the  health  of  the  soul  ?  Am  I  so  sure 
of  having  neglected  no  means  of  preserving  that  during 
the  year  which  is  now  ending?  Have  I,  as  one  of 
God's  soldiers  upon  earth,  kept  my  courage  and  my  arms 
efficient?  Shall  I  be  ready  for  the  great  review  of  souls 
which  must  pass  before  Him  who  is  in  the  dark  valley 
of  Jehoshaphat? 
13 


1 82  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 

Darest  thou  examine  thyself,  O  my  soul !  and  see 
how  often  thou  hast  erred? 

First,  thou  hast  erred  through  pride !  for  I  have  not 
duly  valued  the  lowly.  I  have  drunk  too  deeply  of  the 
intoxicating  wines  of  genius,  and  have  found  no  relish 
in  pure  water.  I  have  disdained  those  words  which 
had  no  other  beauty  than  their  sincerity  ;  I  have  ceased 
to  love  men  solely  because  they  are  men — I  have  loved 
them  for  their  endowments ;  I  have  contracted  the 
world  within  the  narrow  compass  of  a  pantheon,  and 
my  sympathy  has  been  awakened  by  admiration  only. 
The  vulgar  crowd,  which  I  ought  to  have  followed  with 
a  friendly  eye,  because  it  is  composed  of  my  brothers  in 
hope  or  grief,  I  have  let  pass  by  me  with  as  much  in- 
difference as  if  it  were  a  flock  of  sheep.  I  am  indignant 
with  him  who  rolls  in  riches  and  despises  the  man  poor 
in  worldly  wealth  ;  and  yet,  vain  of  my  trifling  knowl- 
edge, I  despise  him  who  is  poor  in  mind — I  scorn  the  pov- 
erty of  intellect  as  others  do  that  of  dress  ;  I  take  credit 
for  a  gift  which  I  did  not  bestow  on  myself,  and  turn 
the  favor  of  fortune  into  a  weapon  with  which  to  at- 
tack others. 

Ah  !  if,  in  the  worst  days  of  revolutions,  ignorance 
has  revolted  and  raised  a  cry  of  hatred  against  genius, 
the  fault  is  not  alone  in  the  envious  malice  of  ignorance, 
but  comes  in  part,  too,  from  the  contemptuous  pride  of 
knowledge. 

Alas  !  I  have  too  completely  forgotten  the  fable  of 
the  two  sons  of  the  magician  of  Bagdad. 

One  of  them,  struck    by  an  irrevocable    degree  of 


THE   END    OE    THE    YEAR.  jg, 

destiny,  was  born  blind,  while  the  other  enjoyed  all  the 
delights  of  sight.  The  latter,  proud  of  his  own  advan- 
tages, laughed  at  his  brother's  blindness,  and  disdained 
him  as  a  companion.  One  morning  the  blind  boy 
wished  to  go  out  with  him. 

"  To  what  purpose,"  said  he,  "  since  the  gods  have 
put  nothing  in  common  between  us?  For  me  creation 
is  a  stage,  where  a  thousand  charming  scenes  and  won- 
derful actors  appear  in  succession  ;  for  you  it  is  only  an 
obscure  abyss,  at  the  bottom  of  which  you  hear  the  con- 
fused murmur  of  an  invisible  world.  Continue  then 
alone  in  your  darkness,  and  leave  the  pleasures  of  light 
to  those  upon  whom  the  day-star  shines." 

With  these  words  he  went  away,  and  his  brother,  left 
alone,  began  to  cry  bitterly.  Mis  father,  who  heard 
him,  immediately  ran  to  him,  and  tried  to  console  him 
by  promising  to  give  him  whatever  he  desired. 

"  Can  you  give  me  sight  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

"  Fate  does  not  permit  it,"  said  the  magician. 

"  Then,"  cried  the  blind  boy  eagerly,  "  I  ask  you  to 
put  out  the  sun  !  " 

Who  knows  whether  my  pride  has  not  provoked  the 
same  wish  on  the  part  of  some  one  of  my  brothers  who 
does  not  see  ? 

But  how  much  oftener  have  I  erred  through  levity 
and  want  of  thought !  How  many  resolutions  have  I 
taken  at  random  !  how  many  judgements  have  I  pro- 
nounced for  the  sake  of  a  witticism  !  how  many  mischiefs 
have  I  not  done  without  any  sense  of  my  responsibility ! 
The  greater  part  of  men  harm  one  another  for  the  sake 


1 84 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


of  doing  something.  We  laugh  at  the  honour  of  one, 
and  compromise  the  reputation  of  another,  like  an  idle 
man  who  saunters  along  a  hedgerow,  breaking  the  young 
branches  and  destroying  the  most  beautiful  flowers. 

And,  nevertheless,  it  is  by  this  very  thoughtlessness 
that  the  fame  of  some  men  is  created.  It  rises  gradually, 
like  one  of  those  mysterious  mounds  in  barbarous  coun- 
tries, to  which  a  stone  is  added  by  every  passer-by  ; 
each  one  brings  something  at  random,  and  adds  it  as  he 
passes,  without  being  able  himself  to  see  whether  he  is 
raising  a  pedestal  or  a  gibbet  Who  will  dare  look 
behind  him,  to  see  his  rash  judgements  held  up  there  to 
view  ? 

Some  time  ago  I  was  walking  along  the  edge  of  the 
green  mound  on  which  the  Montmartre  telegraph 
stands  Below  me,  along  one  of  the  zigzag  paths  which 
wind  up  the  hill,  a  man  and  a  girl  were  coming  up,  and 
arrested  my  attention.  The  man  wore  a  shaggy  coat, 
which  gave  him  some  resemblance  to  a  wild  beast ;  and 
he  held  a  thick  stick  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  de- 
scribed various  strange  figures  in  the  air.  He  spoke 
very  loud,  and  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  me  convulsed 
with  passion.  He  raised  his  eyes  every  now  and  then 
with  an  expression  of  savage  harshness,  and  it  appeared 
to  me  that  he  was  reproaching  and  threatening  the  girl, 
and  that  she  was  listening  to  him  with  a  submissiveness 
which  touched  my  heart.  Two  or  three  times  she  vent- 
ured a  few  words,  doubtless  in  the  attempt  to  justify 
herself ;  but  the  man  in  the  great-coat  began  again  im- 
mediately  with    his    loud   and  angry  voice,  his  savage 


THE  END    OE    THE    YEAR. 


I85 


looks,  and  his  threatening  evolutions  in  the  air.  I  fol- 
lowed him  with  my  eyes,  vainly  endeavouring  to  catch 
a  word  as  he  passed,  until  he  disappeared  behind  the 
hill. 

I  had  evidently  just  seen  one  of  those  domestic 
tyrants  whose  sullen  tempers  are  excited  by  the  pa- 
tience of  their  victims,  and  who,  though  they  have  the 
power  to  become  the  beneficent  gods  of  a  family, 
choose  rather  to  be  their  tormentors. 

I  cursed  the  unknown  savage  in  my  heart,  and  I  felt 
indignant  that  these  crimes  against  the  sacred  peace  of 
home  could  not  be  punished  as  they  deserve,  when  I 
heard  his  voice  approaching  nearer.  He  had  turned 
the  path,  and  soon  ap- 


I  . 


peared   before  me  at 
the  top  of  the  slope. 

The  first  glance, 
and  his  first  words, 
explained  everything 
to  me.  In  place  of 
what  I  had  taken  for 
the  furious  tones  and 
terrible  looks  of  an 
angry  man,  and  the 
attitude  of  a  fright- 
ened victim,  I  had 
before  me  only  an 
honest     citizen,    who 

squinted    and    stuttered,   but    who    was   explaining    the 
management  of  silk-worms  to  his  attentive  daughter. 


^6  an  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

I  turned  homeward,  smiling  at  my  mistake ;  but  be- 
fore I  reached  my  faubourg  I  saw  a  crowd  running,  I 
heard  calls  for  help,  and  every  finger  pointed  in  the 
same  direction  to  a  distant  column  of  flame.  A  manu- 
factory had  taken  fire,  and  everybody  was  rushing  for- 
ward to  assist  in  extinguishing  it. 

I  hesitated.  Night  was  coming  on  ;  I  felt  tired ;  a 
favourite  book  was  awaiting  me  :  I  thought  there  would 
be  no  want  of  help,  and  I  went  on  my  way. 

Just  before  I  had  erred  from  want  of  consideration  ; 
now  it  was  from  selfishness  and  cowardice. 

But  what !  have  I  not  on  a  thousand  other  occasions 
forgotten  the  duties  which  bind  us  to  our  fellow-men? 
Is  this  the  first  time  I  have  avoided  paying  society  what 
I  owe  it  ?  Have  I  not  always  behaved  to  my  compan- 
ions with  injustice,  and  like  the  lion  ?  Have  I  not 
claimed  successively  every  share  ?  If  any  one  is  so  ill- 
advised  as  to  ask  me  to  return  some  little  portion,  I  get 
provoked,  I  am  angry,  I  try  to  escape  from  it  by  every 
means.  How  many  times,  when  I  have  perceived  a 
beggar  sitting  huddled  up  at  the  end  of  the  street,  have 
I  not  gone  out  of  my  way,  for  fear  that  compassion 
would  impoverish  me  by  forcing  me  to  be  charitable  ! 
How  often  have  I  doubted  the  misfortunes  of  others, 
that  I  might  with  justice  harden  my  heart  against  them  ? 
With  what  satisfaction  have  1  sometimes  verified  the 
vices  of  the  poor  man,  in  order  to  show  that  his  misery 
is  the  punishment  he  deserves  i 

Oh  !  let  us  not  go  further — let  us  not  go  further  !  I 
interrupted    the    doctor's  examination,    but    how  much 


THE  END   OE    THE    YEAR.  iSy 

sadder  is  this  one  !  We  pity  the  diseases  of  the  body ; 
we  shudder  at  those  of  the  soul. 

I  was  happily  disturbed  in  my  reverie  by  my  neigh- 
bour, the  old  soldier. 

Now  I  think  of  it,  I  seem  always  to  have  seen,  during 
my  fever,  the  figure  of  this  good  old  man,  sometimes 
leaning  against  my  bed,  and  sometimes  sitting  at  his 
table,  surrounded  by  his  sheets  of  pasteboard. 

He  has  just  come  in  with  his  glue-pot,  his  quire  of 
green  paper,  and  his  great  scissors.  I  called  him  by  his 
name  ;  he  uttered  a  joyful  exclamation,  and  came  near 
me. 

"  Well !  so  the  bullet  is  found  again  !  "  cried  he,  tak- 
ing my  two  hands  into  the  maimed  one  which  was  left 
him  ;  "  it  has  not  been  without  trouble,  I  can  tell  you : 
the  campaign  has  been  long  enough  to  win  two  clasps 
in.  I  have  seen  no  few  fellows  with  the  fever  batter 
windmills  during  my  hospital  days  :  at  Leipsic,  I  had  a 
neighbour  who  fancied  a  chimney  was  on  fire  in  his 
stomach,  and  who  was  always  calling  for  the  fire-en- 
gines ;  but  the  third  day  it  all  went  out  of  itself.  But 
with  you  it  has  lasted  twenty-eight  days — as  long  as  one 
of  the  Little  Corporal's  campaigns." 

"  I  am  not  mistaken,  then  ;  you  were  near  me  ?  " 

"  Well !  I  had  only  to  cross  the  passage.  This  left 
hand  has  not  made  you  a  bad  nurse  for  want  of  the 
right ;  but,  bah  !  you  did  not  know  what  hand  gave  you 
drink,  and  it  did  not  prevent  that  beggar  of  a  fever 
from  being  drowned — for  all  the  world  like  Poniatowski 
in  the  Elster." 


1 88  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  old  soldier  began  to  laugh,  and  I,  feeling  too- 
much  affected  to  speak,  pressed  his  hand  against  my 
breast.  He  saw  my  emotion,  and  hastened  to  put  an 
end  to  it. 

"  By  the  by,  you  know  that  from  to-day  you  have  a 
right  to  draw  your  rations  again,"  resumed  he  gaily  ; 
"  four  meals,  like  the  German  meinJierrs — nothing  more  I 
The  doctor  is  your  house  steward." 

"  We  must  find  the  cook,  too,"  replied  I,  with  a  smile. 

"  She  is  found,"  said  the  veteran. 

"  Who  is  she?  " 

"  Genevieve." 

"  The  fruit-woman  ?  " 

"  While  I  am  talking  she  is  cooking  for  you,  neigh- 
bour ;  and  do  not  fear  her  sparing  either  butter  or 
trouble.  As  long  as  life  and  death  were  fighting  for 
you,  the  honest  woman  passed  her  time  in  going  up 
and  down  stairs  to  learn  which  way  the  battle  went. 
And,  stay,  I  am  sure  this  is  she." 

In  fact  we  heard  steps  in  the  passage,  and  he  went 
to  open  the  door. 

"  Oh,  well !  "  continued  he,  "  it  is  Mother  Millot,  our 
portress,  another  of  your  good  friends,  neighbour,  and 
whose  poultices  I  recommend  to  you. — Come  in,  Mother 
Millot — come  in  ;  we  are  quite  bonny  boys  this  morn- 
ing, and  ready  to  step  a  minuet  if  we  had  our  dancing- 
shoes." 

The  portress  came  in,  quite  delighted.  She  brought 
my  linen,  washed  and  mended  by  herself,  with  a  little 
bottle  of  Spanish  wine,  the  gift  of  her  sailor  son,  and 


THE  END   OF    THE   YEAR.  jgg 

kept  for  great  occasions.  I  would  have  thanked  her, 
but  the  good  woman  imposed  silence  upon  me,  under 
the  pretext  that  the  doctor  had  forbidden  me  to  speak. 
I  saw  her  arrange  everything  in  my  drawers,  the  neat 
appearance  of  which  struck  me  ;  an  attentive  hand  had 
evidently  been  there,  and  day  by  day  put  straight  the 
unavoidable  disorder  consequent  on  sickness. 

As  she  finished,  Genevieve  arrived  with  my  dinner; 
she  was  followed  by  Mother  Denis,  the  milkwoman  over 
the  way,  who  had  learned,  at  the  same  time,  the  danger 
I  had  been  in,  and  that  I  was  now  beginning  to  be  con- 
valescent. The  good  Savoyard  brought  me  a  new-laid 
egg,  which  she  herself  wished  to  see  me  eat. 

It  was  necessary  to  relate  minutely  all  my  illness  to 
her.  At  every  detail  she  uttered  loud  exclamations; 
then,  when  the  portress  warned  her  to  be  less  noisy,  she 
excused  herself  in  a  whisper.  They  made  a  circle 
around  me  to  see  me  eat  my  dinner  ;  each  mouthful  I 
took  was  accompanied  by  their  expressions  of  satisfac- 
tion and  thankfulness.  Never  had  the  King  of  France, 
when  he  dined  in  public,  excited  such  admiration  among 
the  spectators. 

As  they  were  taking  the  dinner  away,  my  colleague, 
the  old  cashier,  entered  in  his  turn. 

I  could  not  prevent  my  heart  beating  as  I  recog- 
nised him.  How  would  the  heads  of  the  firm  look  upon 
my  absence,  and  what  did  he  come  to  tell  me  ? 

I  waited  with  inexpressible  anxiety  for  him  to  speak  ; 
but  he  sat  down  by  me,  took  my  hand,  and  began  re- 
joicing over  my  recovery,  without  saying  a  word  about 


190 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER   IN  PARIS. 


our  masters.  I  could  not  endure  this  uncertainty  any 
longer. 

"And  the  Messieurs  Durmer,"  asked  I,  hesitatingly, 
"  how  have  they  taken — the  interruption  to  my  work?  " 

"  There  has  been  no  interruption,"  replied  the  old 
clerk,  quietly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Each  one  in  the  office  took  a  share  of  your  duty  ; 
all  has  gone  on  as  usual,  and  the  Messieurs  Durmer  have 
perceived  no  difference." 

This  was  too  much.  After  so  many  instances  of 
affection,  this  filled  up  the  measure.  I  could  not  restrain 
my  tears. 

Thus  the  few  services  I  had  been  able  to  do  for 
others  had  been  acknowledged  by  them  a  hundredfold  ! 
I  had  sown  a  little  seed,  and  every  grain  had  fallen  on 
good  ground,  and  brought  forth  a  whole  sheaf.  Ah  ! 
this  completes  the  lesson  the  doctor  gave  me.  If  it  is 
true  that  the  diseases,  whether  of  the  mind  or  body,  are 
the  fruit  of  our  follies  and  our  vices,  sympathy  and 
affection  are  also  the  rewards  of  our  having  done  our 
duty.  Every  one  of  us,  with  God's  help,  and  within 
the  narrow  limits  of  human  capability,  himself  makes 
his  own  disposition,  character,  and  permanent  condition. 

Everybody  is  gone  ;  the  old  soldier  has  brought  me 
back  my  flowers  and  my  birds,  and  they  are  my  only 
companions.  The  setting  sun  reddens  my  half-closed  cur- 
tains with  its  last  rays.  My  brain  is  clear,  and  my  heart 
lighter.     A  thin  mist  floats  before  my  eyes,  and  I  feel 


THE   END    OF    THE    YEAR. 


IQI 


myself  in  that  happy  state  which  precedes  a  refreshing 
sleep. 

Yonder,  opposite  the  bed,  the  pale  goddess  in  her 
drapery  of  a  thousand  changing  colours,  and  with  her 
withered  garland,  again  appears  before  me ;  but  this 
time  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  her  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"Adieu,  beloved  Year  !  whom  I  but  now  unjustly 
accused.  That  which  I  have  suffered  must  not  be  laid 
to  thee ;  for  thou  wast  but  a  tract  through  which  God 
had  marked  out  my  road — a  ground  where  I  had  reaped 
the  harvest  I  had  sown.  I  will  love  thee,  thou  wayside 
shelter,  for  those  hours  of  happiness  thou  hast  seen  me 
enjoy ;  I  will  love  thee  even  for  the  suffering  thou  hast 
seen  me  endure.  Neither  happiness  nor  suffering  came 
from  thee ;  but  thou  hast  been  the  scene  for  them. 
Descend  again  then,  in  peace,  into  eternity,  and  be  blest, 
thou  who  hast  left  me  experience  in  the  place  of  youth, 
sweet  memories  instead  of  past  time,  and  gratitude  as 
payment  for  good  offices." 


1%n 


A     001106  616 


SOUTHERN   BRANCH 

UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIF. 


